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[COPYEIGHTED 1879.] KTo, lO. 



The New York News Company, Wholesale Agents, 






MRS. CAUDLE'S 


CURTAIN LECTURES, 


DOUGLAS JERROLD. 



ROCHESTER, X. Y,: 

GEO. W. FITCH, PUBLISHEU, CO AXD,IIEW3 ST. 
1879. 


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THE PREFACE. 


It has happened to the Avriter that tAvo, 
or three, or ten, or tAventy gentleAvonien 
haA'e a.sked him, — and asked in various 
notes of Avonder, pity, and reproof, — 

*• Wli((t could hove mode yoa think of 
d/?’.s. C((udle? 

“ llow could such o thiuij hove entered 
ony mon's mind?" 

There are subjects that seem like rain- 
drops to fall upon a man’s head, the head 
it.self havinj^ nothing to do Avith the mat- 
ter. The resiilt of no train of thought, 
there is the 2»ietTire, the statue, the book, 
Avafted, like the smallest seed, into the 
brain, to feed upon the soil, such as it may 
l)e, and groAv there ; and this,Avas, no doubt, 
the accidental cause of the literary soAving 
and ex2)ansion — unfolding like a night- 
lloAver — of Mks. Caudle. 

I>ut let a jury of gentleAvomen decide. 

It Avas a thick, black, Avintry aftenioon, 
Avhen the Avriter stoi)imd in the front of the 
jday-ground of a suburban school. The 
ground sAvarmed Avith boys full of the Sat- 
urday’s holiday. The earth seemed I'oof- 
ed Avith the oldest lead ; and the Avind 
came, shaiT as Shylock’s knife, from the 
Minories. But tJiese hai)py boys ran and 
jumi)ed, and hoi>ijed and shouted, and — 
unconscious men in miniature ! — in their 
own Avorld of frolic, had no thought of tJio 
full-lengdi men they Avould some day be- 
come ; draAvn out into -grave citizenshii) ; 
formal, respectable, resi)onsible. To them 
the sky Avas of any or all colors ; and for 
that keen east-Avind — cutting the shoulder- 
blades of old, old men of forty — they in 
their immortality of boyhood had the red- 
der faces and the nimbler blood for it. 


And the Avriter, I '.king dreamily into 
that play-grouml, sli I mused on the ro- 
bu.st jollity of those little felloAvs, to Avhom 
the tax-gatherer Avas as yet a rarer animal 
than l)aby hi2)popotamAxs. Heroic boy- 
hood, so ignorant of the future in the 
knoAving enjoyment of the i)resent ! And 
the Avriter, still dreaming and musing, and 
.still folloAving no distinct line of thouglit, 
there struck upon him, like notes of sud- 
den household mn dc, these Avords — C ur- 
tain Lectures. 

One moment there Avas no living object 
save those racing, shouting boys ; ajid the 
next, as though a Avnitedove had alighted 
on the i)en-hand of the Avriter, there was — 
Mrs. Caudle. 

Ladies of the jury, are there not then 
some subjects of letters tliat mysteriously 
assert an effect Avithout any discoverable 
cause ? OtherAvise, Avherefore should the 
thought of Cxtrtain Lectures groAV from 
a school-ground — Avherefore, among a 
croAvd of holiday school-boys shoixld aj)- 
liear jMrs. Caudle ? 

For the Lectures themselA-es, it is fear- 
ed they must be given up as a farcical des- 
ecration of a solemn time-honored jirivi- 
lege ; it may be, exercised once in a life- 
time, — and that once having the effect of 
a hundred repetitions ; as Job lectured his 
wife. And Job’s Avife, a certain Moham- 
medan Avriter delivers, having committed 
a fault in her loA-e to her husband, he 
SAVore that on his recoA^ery he Avould deal 
her a hundred striiies. Job got Avell, and 
his heart Avas touched and taught by the 
tenderness to keeji his voav, and still to 
chastise his heljjinate ; for he smote her 
once Avith a jialm-bi-anch having a hun- 
dred leaves. 1 ). J. 



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THE INTRODUCTION 


Poor Job Caudle was oue of the few 
men whom Nature, in her casual bounty 
to women, sends into the world as jjatient 
listeners. He was, j)erhaps, in more re- 
spects than one, all ears. And these ears, 
Mrs. Caudle — his lawful, wedded wife, as 
she would ever and anon impress upon 
him, for she was not a woman to wear 
chaims without shaking them — took whole 
and sole pos.sessiou of. They were her 
entire property ; as expressly made to con- 
vey to Caudle’s brain the stream of wis- 
dom that continually flowed from the liijs 
of his wife, as was the tin funnel through 
which Mrs. Caudle in vintage time bottled 
her elder wine. There was, however, this 
diflerence between the wisdom and the 
wine. The wine was always sugared : the 
wisdom, never. It was expressed crude 
from the heart of Mrs. Caudle ; who, 
doubtless, trusted to the sweetness of her 
husband’s disposition to make it agree 
with him. 

Philosophers have debated whether morn- 
ing or night is most conducive to the 
strongest and clearest moral imisressions. 
The Grecian .sage confessed that his labors 
smelt of the lamp. In like manner did 
Mrs. Caudle’s wisdom smell of the rush- 
light. She knew that her husband was 
too much distracted by his business as 
toy-man and doll-merchant to digest her 
lessons in the broad-day. Besides,, she 
could never make sure of him : he was al- 
ways liable to be summoned to the shop. 
Now from eleven at night until seven in 
the morning, there was no retreat for him. 
He was compelled to lie and listen. Per- 
haps there was little magnanimity in this 
on the part of Mrs. Caudle ; but in mar- 
riage as in war, it is permitted to take 


every advantage of the enemy. Besides, 
Mrs. Caudle copied very ancient and clas- 
sic authority. Minerva’s bird, the very 
wisest thing in feathers, is silent all the 
day. So was Mrs. Caudle. Like the owl, 
she hooted only at night. 

Mr. Caudle was blessed with an indom- 
itable constitution. One fact will prove 
the truth of this. He lived thirty years 
with Mrs. Caudle, surviving her. Yes, it 
took thirty years for Mrs. Caudle to lec- 
ture and dilute upon the joys, griefs, du- 
ties, and vicissitudes comiirised within 
that seemingly small circle— the wedding- 
I’ing. We say, seemingly small ; for the 
thing, as viewed by the vulgar, naked eye, 
is a tiny hoop made for the. third feminine 
finger. Alack ! like the ring of Saturn, 
for good or evil, it circles a whole world. 
Or, to take a less gigantic figure, it com- 
passes a vast region ; it may be Arabia 
Felix, and it may be Arabia Petrea. 

A lemon-hearted cynic might liken the 
wedding-ring to an ancient Circus, in 
which wild animals clawed one another for 
the spori' of lookers-one. Peri.sh the hy- 
perbole ! We Avould rather compare it to 
an elfin ring, in which dancing fairies 
made the sweetest music for infirm hu- 
manity. 

Manifold are the uses of rings. Even 
swine are tamed by them. •Y'ou Avill see 
a vagrant, hilarious, devastating i^orker — 
a full-blooded fellow that Avould bleed in- 
to many, many fathoms of black i)ud- 
ding — ^you will see him, e.scaped from his 
proper home, straying in a neighbor’s 
garden. How he tramjAles upon the heart’s- 
ease : how, Avith quiA'ering snout, he roots 
up lilies — odoriferous bulbs ! Hero he 
gives a reckless snatch at thyme and mar- 


Vi 


THE lNTRODrC!TION. 


joram — anil here lie munches violets and 
gillyflowers. At length the marauder is 
detected, seized hy his owner, and driven,, 
beaten home. To make the porker less 
dangerous, it is determined that he shall be 
rhujed. The sentence is inonounced — ex- 
ecution ordered. Listen to his screams ! 

" Would you not think the knife was in his throat ? 

And yet they’re only boring through his nose !” 

Hence, for all future time, the iiorker be- 
haves himself with a sort of forced pro- 
}>riety — for in either nostril he carries a 
ring. It is, for the greatness of humanity, 
a saddening thought, that sometimes men 
must be treated no better than pigs. 

But Mr. Job Caudle was not of these 
men. Marriage to him was not made a 
necessity. No ; for him call it if you Avill 
a happy chance — a golden accident. It 
is, hoAvever, enough for us to know that 
he was married ; and was therefore made 
the recipient of a wife’s wisdom. Mrs. 
Caudle, like Mahomet’s doA'e, continually 
liecked at the good man’s ears ; and it is a 
happiness to learn from Avhat he left be- 
hind that he had hived all her sayings in 
his brain ; and further, that he employed 
the melloAV evening of his life to put such 
sayings doAvn, that, in due season, they 
might be enshrined in imperishable type. 

'When Mr. Job Caudle Avas left in this 
briery Avorld Avithout his daily guide and | 
nocturnal monitress, he Avas in* the ripe 
fullness of fifty -tAvo. For three hours at j 
least after he Avent to bed— such slaves are 
Ave to habit — he could not close an eye. j 
His Avife still talked at his side. True it i 
Avas, she Avas dead and decently interred. J 
His mind — it'Avas a comfort to knoAV it — i 
could not Avander on this point ; this he j 
kneAV. Nevertheless, his Avife Avas Avith ' 
him. The (Ihost of her Tongiie still talk- j 
ed as in the life ; and again and again did 
Job Caudle hear the monitions of bygone ' 
years. At times, so loud, so lively, so real | 
Avere the sounds, that Job, Avitli a cold ' 
chill, doubted if he Avere really AvidoAved. i 


And then, Avith the moA’ement of an arm, 
a foot, he Avould assure himself that he 
j Avas alone in his holland. Nevertheless, 
j the talk continued. It Avas terrible to be 
thus haunted by a A'oice ; to haA'e advice, 
i commands, remonstrance, all sorts of saws 
and adages still jAoured uj)on him, and no 
visible Avife. Noav did the voice speak 
from the curtains ; noAv from the tester ; 

■ and noAV did it Avhisper to Job from the 
A’ery pilloAV that he pressed. “It’s a 
dreadful thing that her tongue should 
Avalk in this manner,” said Job, and then 
he thought confusedly of exorcism, or at 
i least of counsel from the parish priest. 

I Whether Job folloAved his oAvn brain, 
i or the wise direction of another, Ave knoAv 
i not. But he resoh'ed eA-ery night to com- 
I mit to i)aper one curtain lecture of his late 
Avife. The emidoyment Avould, i)ossibly, 
lay the ghost that haunted him. It Avas 
her dear tongue that cried for justice, and 
when thus satisfied, it might possibly rest 
in quiet. And so it happened. Job faith- 
fully chronicled all his late Avife’s lectures; 
the ghost of her tongue Avas thenceforth 
I silent, and Job slei)t all his after-nights 
in peace. 

When Job died, a small i)acket of pa- 
lmers Avas found inscribed as folloAvs : — 

“ Curtain Lectures delivered in the course 
of Thirty Years hy Mrs. Margaret 
Caudle, and sujfered hy Joh, her 
Husband. ” 

That Mr. Caudle had his eye iqAon the 
future printer, is made pretty probable by 
the fact that in most }daces he had affixed 
the text — such text for the most i)art aris- 
ing out of his own daily conduct — to the 
lecture of the night. He had also, Avith 
an instinctive knoAvledge of the dignity 
of literature, left a bank-note of very fail- 
amount Avith the manuscrijit. FclloAving 
our duty as editor, Ave trust Ave liaA-e done 
justice to both documents. 


MRS. CAUDLE’S 

CURTAIN LECTURES 


THE FIRST LECTURE. 


MR. CAT^DI/E HAS LENT TTS'E POI’NDS TO A 
FRIEND. 


“You ought to be very rich, Mr. Caiaclle. 
I wonder who’d lend you five pounds ? 
But so it is : a wife may work and may 
slave ! Ha, dear ! the many things that 
might have been done with five pounds. 
As if people picked up money in the street! 
But you always were a fool, Mr. Caudle ! 
I’ve wanted a black satin gown these three 


years, and that five ijounds would have 
entirely bought it. But it’s no matter how 
I go, — not at all. Every body says I don’t 
dress as becomes your wife — and I don’t ; 
but what’s that to you, Mr. Caudle ? Noth- 
ing. Oh, no ! you can have fine feelings 
for every body but those belonging to you. 
I wish people knew you as Ido — that’s all. 
You like to l)e called liberal— and your 
family pays for it. 

“ All the girls want bonnets, and where 
they’re to come from I can’t tell. Half 
five pounds would have bought ’em — but 
now they must go without. Of course, 
they belong to you : and any body but your 
own flesh and blood, Mr. Caudle. 

“The man called for the water-rate to- 
day ; but I should like to know how peo- 
ple are to pay taxes, who throw away five 
jiounds to every fellow that asks them ? 

“ Perhaps you don’t know that Jack, this 
morning, knocked his shuttlecock through 
his bed-room window. I was going to 


send for the glazier to mend it ; but after 
YOU lent that five pounds I was sure we 


couldn’t afford it. Oh, no ! the window’ 
must go as it is ; and jjretty weather for a 
dear child to sleep with a broken window’. 
He’s got a cold already on his lungs, and 
I shouldn’t at all wonder if that broken 
w indow’ settled him. If the dear boy dies, 
his death Avill be uiion his father’s head ; 
for I’m sure we can’t now pay to mend 
Avindows. We might though, and do a 
great many more things, too, if people 
didn’t throAv aw’ay their five pounds. 

‘ ‘ Next Tuesday the fire-insurance is due. 
I should like to knoAV how it*s to be paid ? 
Why, it can’t be jiaid at all ! That five 
pounds Avould have more than done it— 
and now, insurance is out of the question. 
And there never w’ere so many fires as there 
are noAV. I shall never close my eyes all 
night, — but AA’hat’s that to you, so people 
can call you liberal, Mr. Caudle ? Your 
wife and children may all be burnt alive 
in their beds — as all of us to a certainty 
shall be, for the insurance must drop. 
And after Ave’ve insured for so many years! 
But hoAV, I should like to know, are jieo- 
ple to insure who make ducks aiu*. drakes 
of their fiA'e pounds ? 

“I did think AA’e might go to Margate 
this summer. There’s poor little Caroline, 
I’m sure she wants the sea. But no, dear 
creature ! she must stop at home — all of 
us must stop at home — she’ll go into a 
consumption, there’s no doub of that; yes 
— sAveet little angel ! — IVe made up my 
mind to lose her, now. The child might 
have been saved ; but people can’t save 
their children and throw away their five 
jiounds too. 


2 


IVIES. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


‘I wonder where jioor little Mopsy is ? 
While you were lending that five pounds, 
the dog ran out of the shop. You know, 
I never let it go into the street, for fear it 
should be bit by some mad dog, and come 
home and bite all the children. It Avould 
n’t now at all astonish me if the animal 
was to come back with the hydrophobia, 
and give it to all the family. However, 
what’-i your family to you, so you can ijlay 
the liberal creature with five pounds ? 

“Do you hear that shutter, how it’s 
banging to and fro ? Yes, — I know what 
it wants as well as you ; it wants a new 
fastening. I was going to send for the 
blacksmith to-day, but now its out of the 
que.«tion : now it must bang of nights, 
since you’ve thrown away five pounds. 

“ Ha ! there’s the soot falling down the 
chimney. If I hate the smell of anything, 
it’s the smell of soot. And you know it ; 
but what are my feelings to you ? Sweep 
the chimney ! Yes, it's all very fine to say, 
sweep the chimney — but how are chimneys 
to be swejjt — how' are they to be paid for 
by jieople who don’t take care of their five 
pounds ? 

“Do you hear the mice running about 
the room ? / hear them. If they were 
to drag only you out of bed, it would be 
no matter. Set a truj) for them ! Y^es, it’s 
easy enough to say — set a traj) lor ’em. 
But how are people to afford mouse-traj^s, 
when every day they lose five i^ounds ? 

“Hark ! I’m sure thex'e’s a noise down- 
stairs. It wouldn’t at all suiqjrise me if 
there were thieves in the house. Well, it 
may be the cat, but thieves are jxretty sure 
to come in some night. There’s a wretch- 
ed fastening to the backdoor; but these 
are not times to afibrd bolts and bars, 
when 2’eople won’t take care of their five 
pounds. 

“Maiw Anne ought to have gone to the 
dentist’s to-moiTOw. She wants three teeth 
taken out. Now, it can’t be done. Three 
teeth that quite disfigure the ixoor child’s 
mouth. But there they must stojj, and 


siJoil the sweetest face that was ever made. 
Otherwise, she’d have been a wife for a 
lord. Now, when she grows ujx, who'll 
have her ? Nobody. We shall die, and 
leave her alone and uiqxi’otected in the 
world. But what do you cai'e for that ? 
Nothing ; so you can squander away five 
jjounds.” 

“And thus,” comments Caudle, “ac- 
cording to my wife, she— dear soul !— could 
n’t have a satin gown — the girls couldn’t 
have new bonnets — the water-rate must 
stand over — through a broken window. 
Jack mixst get his death — our fire-insur- 
ance could't be 2xaid, so that we .should all 
fall victims to the devouring element — we 
couldn’t go to Margate, and Caroline would 
go to an early grave — the dog would come 
home and bite us all mad — the shutter 
would go banging forever — the soot would 
always fall — the mice never let us have a 
wink of slee2x — thieves be always breaking 
in the house — or.r dear Mary Anne bo for- 
ever left an un 23 rotected maid, — and with 
other evils falling U 23 on us, all, all because 
I would go on lending five 2Jounds !” 


THE SECOND LECTURE. 

MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN AT A TAVERN WITH 
A FRIEND, AND “ IS ENOUGH TO POISON 
A woman” WUTH TOBACCO-SMOKE. 

“I M sure I don’t know who’d be a poor 
woman ! I don’t know who’d tie them- 
selves U2) to a man, if they only knew half 
they’d have to bear. A wife must stay at 
home, and be a drudge, whilst a man can 
go anywhere. It’s enough for a wife to 
sit like Cinderella by the ashes, whilst her 
husband can go drinking and singing at a 
tavern. You nevet' sing? How do I know 
you never sing ? It’s very well for you to 
say so ; but if I could hear you, I dare say 
your among the "n'orst of ’em. 


MKS. CAUDLE’S CUKTAIX LECTUKES. 


3 


“And now, I suppose, it will be the 
tavern every night ? If you think I’m go- 
ing to sit up for you, Mr. Caudle, you’re 
very much mistaken. No : and I’m not 
going to get out of my warm bed to let you 
in, either. No : nor Susan sha’n’t sit i;p 
for you. No : nor you sha’n’t have a 
latch-key. I’m not going to sleep with 
the door upon the latch, to be murdered 
before the morning. 

“Faugh! Pah! Whewgh ! That filthy 
tobacco-smoke ! It’s enough to kill any 
decent woman. You know I hate tobacco, 
and yet 3*011 will do it. You don't smoke 
yourself? What of that ? If yo\i go among 
jjeople who do smoke, you’re just as bad, 
or worse. You might as well smoke — in- 
deed, better. Better smoke yourself than 
come home with other people’s smoke all 
in your hair and whiskers. 

“I never knew any good come to a man 
who went to a tavern. Nice comijanions 
he picks up there ! Yes ; peojile who 
make it a boast to treat their wives like 
slaves, and ruin their families. There’s 
that wretch, Harry Prett3^man. See what 
he’s come to. He doesn’t now get home 
till two in the morning ; and then in what 
a state ! He begins quarreling with the 
door-mat, that his poor wife may be afraid 
to speak to him. A niean wretch ! But 
don’t you think I’ll be like Mrs. Pretty- 
man. No : I wouldn’t put up with it from 
the best man that ever trod. You’ll not 
make me afraid to speak to you, however 
you may swear at the door-mat. No, Mr. 
Caudle, that you won’t. 

“ You don't intend to stay out till two in 
the momiing ? How do 3*011 know what 
3'ou’ll do Avhen you get among such peo- 
ple ? Men can’t answer for themselves* 
when they get to boosing one with anoth- 
er. Thev* never think of their poor wives, 
who are grieving and wearing themselves 
out at home. A nice headache you’ll 
have to-morrow morning, — or rather this 
morning ; for it must be iiast twelve. You 
won't have a headache ? It’s very well for 


I you to say so, but I know you will ; and 
I then you may nurse yourself for me. Ha ! 
I that filthy tobacco again ! No ; I shall 
I not go to sleep like a good soul. How’s 
: iieople to go to sleep when they’re suffo- 
I cated ? 

j “A'es, Mr. Caudle, you’ll be nice and 
I ill in the morning ! But don’t you think 
j I’m going to let you have your breakfast 
I in bed, like Mrs. Prettymau. I’ll not be 
I such a fool. No ; nor I Avon’t have dis- 
credit brought uijon the house by sending 
for soda-water early, for all the neighbor- 
1 hood to sa3*, ‘ Caudlo Avas drunk last night. ’ 
i No : I’ve some regard for the dear child- 
ren, if you haven't. No : nor you sha’u’t 
liaA'e broth for dinner. Not a neck of mut- 
ton crosses my threshold, I can tell you. 

“ You won't want soda and you won't want 
broth ? All the better. You Avouldu’t get 
’em if you did, I can assure you. — Dear, 
dear, dear ! That filthy tobacco ! I’m 
sure it’s enough to make me as bad as you 
are. Talking about getting divorced, — 
I'm sure tobacco ought to bo good grounds. 
How little does a woman think, Avhen she 
marries, that she gives herself uj) to be 
lAoisoned ! You men contrive to have it 
all of 3*our oavu side, you do. Now if I 
Avas to go and leave 3’ou and the children, 
a pretty noise there’d be ! You, hoAvever, 
can go and smoke no end of jupes and — 
You didn't smoke ? It’s all the same Mr. 
Caudle, if you go among smoking peo23le. 
Folks are knoAvn b3* their comimny. You’d 
better smoke A*ourself, than bring home 
the injjes of all the Avorld. 

“Yes, I see Iioav it Avill be. Noav 3-ou’A'e 
once gone to a taA*ern, 3'ou’ll ahvays be go- 
ing. You’ll bo coming homo tijjsy CA*ery 
night ; and tumbling doAvn and breaking 
3*our leg, and i)uttiug out your shoulder ; 
and bringing all sorts of disgi-ace and ex- 
jAeuse ujion us. And then 3*ou’ll bo get- 
ting into a street fight — oh ! I knoAV your 
tem2)er too Avell to doubt it, Mr. Caudle — 
and be knocking doAvn some of the 2)olice. 
And then I knoAv what Avill folloAV. It 


4 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


mrist follow. Yes, you’ll be sent for a \ 
month or six weeks to the tread-mill. 
Pretty thing that, for a respectable trades- ! 
man, Mr. Candle, to be put niion the 
tread-mill with all sorts of thieves and vag- ^ 
abonds, and — there, again, that horrible 
tobacco ! — and riffraff of every kind. I 
shonld like to know how yonr children j 
are to hold nj"* their heads, after their 
father has been npon the tread-mill No ; j 
I won't, go to sleej). And I’m not talking | 
of what’s impossible. I know it will all j 
haj^pen — eveiy bit of it. If it wasn’t for | 
tlie dear children, yoii might be mined i 
and I wouldn’t so mnch as speak about it, j 
but— oh, dear, dear! at least yon might j 
go where they smoke yood tobacco — but I 
can’t forget that I’m their mother. At j 
least they shall have one parent. 

“Taverns ! Never did a man go to a 
tavern who didn’t die a beggar. And how’ 
your pot-companions will laugh at you 
when they see your name in the “Ga- 
zette ” ! For it muHt hapjjen. Y'our busi- j 
ness is sure to fall off ; for w hat resi^ecta- j 
ble peoj^le will buy toys for their children 1 
of a drunkard ? Y’ou’re not a drunkard ! ■ 
No ; but you will be — it’s all the same. ] 

“ You’ve begun by staying out till mid- 
night. By and by ’twill be all night. I 
But don’t you think, Mr. Cavxdle, you 
shall ever have a key. I know you. Yes : 
you’d do exactly like that Prettyman, and 
what did he cio, only last Wednesday ? 
AVhy, he let himself in about four in the ' 
morning, and brought home with him his | 
2 iot-comi)anion, Puffy. His dear wife woke ; 
at six, and saw' Pi-ettyman’s dirty boots at 1 
her bed-side. Ami where was the wretch, 
her husband ? Why, he was drinking j 
dow'ii stairs — swilling. Y'es ; w'orse than 
a midnight robber, he’d taken the keys 
out of his dear Avife’s j^ockets — ha ! what 
that ijoor creature has to bear ! — and had 
got at the brandy. A i3retty thing for a 
wife to Avake at six in the morning, and 
instead of her husband to see his dirty 
boots ! 


“ But I’ll not be made your A'ictim, Mr. 
Caudle, not I. You shall never get at my 
keys, for they shall lie under my ixillow — 
under my OAvn head, IMr. Caudle. 

“ Y'ou’ll be ruined, but if I can helix it, 
you .shall ruin nobody but your.self. 

“ Oh ! that hor — hor — hor — i — ble tob — 
ac — CO I” 

To this lecture Caudle affixes no com- 
ment. A certain proof, Ave think, that the 
man had nothing to say for himself. 


THE THIRD LECTURE. 

MB. CAUDIiE JOINS A CLXTB, “THE .SKYXiAEKS. ” 

“ WeliL, if a Avoman hadn’t better be in 
her grave than be married 1 That is, if 
she can't be married to a decent man. 
No ; I don’t care if you are tired, I sha'n't 
let you go to sleep. No, and I Avon’t say 
what I have to say in the morning ; I’ll 
say it now'. It’s all A'ei-y Avell for you to 
come home at Avhat time you like — it’s 
noAV half-past tAvelve — and expect I’m to 
hold my tongue, and let you go to sleep. 
What next, I Avonder ? A W'oman had bet- 
ter be sold for a slave at once. 

“And so you’ve gone and joined a club? 
The Skylarks, indeed ! A pretty skylark 
you’ll make of yourself ! But I Avon’t 
stay and be ruined by you. No : I’m de- 
termined on that. I’ll go and take the 
dear children, and you may get Avho you 
like to keep your house. That is, as long 
as you have a house to keep — and that 
Avon’t be long, I knoAV. 

“ Hoav any decent man can go and spend 
his nights in a tavern ! — -oh, yes, Mr. Cau- 
dle ; I dare say you do go for rational con- 
versation. I should like to knoAV hoAv 
many of you Avould care for Avhat you call 
rational conA'ersation, if you had it with- 
out your filthy brandy-and-Avater ; yes, 
and your more filthy tobacco -smoke. I’m 


MRS. CAUDLE S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


Pi 


sure the last time von came home, I had 
the headache for a week. Bnt I know 
who it is Avho’s takiii" you to destruction. 
It’s that brute, Prettyman. He has bro- 
ken his own 2 >oor Avife’s heart, and now he 
A\ants to — bnt don’t you think of it, Mr. 
Candle ; I’ll not liaA e my i)eace of mind 
destroyed by the best man that CA’er trod. 
Oh, yes ! I knoA\- you don’t care so long as 
yon can ai')2)ear Avell to all the Avorld, — bnt 
the Avorld little thinks Iioaa- yon behave to 
me. It shall know it, though — that I’m 
determined. 

“ Hoav any man can leaA'e his oAvn haji- 
I)y fireside to go and sit and smoke, and 
drink, and talk Avitli iieople who Avonldn’t 
one of ’em lift a finger to save him from 
lianging — hoAv any man can leaA^e his wife 
— and a good Avife, too, though I say it— 
for a jAarcel of iAot-comi)anions — oli, it’s 
disgraceful, Mr. Caudle ; it’s unfeeling. 
No man who had the least love for his 
Avife could do it. 

“ And I snpiAOse this is to be the case 
ev^ery Saturday ? But I know Avhat I’ll 
do. I knoAv — it’s no use, Mr. Candle, 
your calling me a good creature : I’m not 
such a fool as to be coaxed in that Avay. 
No ; if yon Avant to go to sleep, you should 
come home in Christian time, not at half- 
jiast twelve. There Avas a time Av.ien yon 
Avere as regular at your fireside as the ket- 
tle. That Avas Avhen you Avei-e a decent 
man, and didn’t go amongst Heaven knoAvs 
Avho, drinking ajid smoking, and making 
Avhat yon think your jokes. I never heard 
any good come to a man Avho cared about 
jokes. No reai)ectable tradesman does. 
But I know Avhat I’ll do ; I’ll scare away 
your Skylarks. The hoAise seiwes liquor 
after tAvelve of a Saturday ; and if I don’t 
Avrite to the magistrates, and haA’e the i 
license taken aAvay, I am not lying in this 
bed this night. Yes, you may call me a 
foolish Avoman ; bnt no, Mr. Caudle, no ; 
it’s yon Avho are the foolish man ; or Avorse 
than a foolish man ; you’re a wicked one. 
If you Avere to die to-morroAA* — and peoi'le 


Avho go to j^nblic-houses do all they can 
to shorten their lives — I .should like to 
knoAv Avho Avonld Avrite niion your tomb- 
stone, ‘ A tender husband and an affec- 
tionate father’ ? /- I'd haA’e no such false- 
hoods told of yon, I can assure you. 

“ doing and siiending your money, and 
— nonsense ! don’t tell me — no. if yon were 
ten times t<A SAvear it, I Avouldn’t belicA’c 
that yon only s])ent eighteen-pence on Ji 
Saturday. You can’t be all those hours, 
and only sijcnd eighteen-i>ence. I know 
better. I’m not (piite a fool, Mr. Caudle. 
A great deal you could have for eighteen- 
l)ence ! And all the Club married men 
and fathers of families. The more shame 
for ’em ! Skylarks, indeed ! They should 
call themselves Ynltnres ; for they can 
only do as they do by eating uja their in- 
nocent Avives and children. Eighteen- 
jAence a Aveek ! And if it Avas only that, — 
do you know Avhat fifty-two eighteen-jAen- 
ces come to in a year ? Do you eA'er think 
of that, and see the gowns I wear ? I’m 
sure I can’t, out of the house-money, buy 
myself a i)incushion ; though I’a'o Avanted 
one these six months. No — not .so much 
as a ball of cotton. But Avhat do you care 
so you can get your brandy-and-water ? 
There’s the girls, too — the things they 
Avant ! They’re neA’er dressed like other 
jAeoide’s children. But it’s all the same 
to their father. Oh, yes ! So he can go 
Avith his Skylarks they may Avear sack- 
cloth for jAinafores, and i)ackthread for 
garters. 

“ Y'ou’d better not let that Mr. Pretty- 
maji come here, that’s all ; or, rather, 
you’d better bring him once. Y’'es, I should 
like to see him. He Avonldn’t forget it. 
A man avIio, I may say, lives and moves in 
a si)ittoon. A man avIio has a pipe in his 
mouth as constant as his front teeth. A 
sort of taA’ern king, Avith a lot of fools, 
like you, to laugh at Avhat he thinks his 
jokes, and give him consequence. No, 
Mr. Caudle, no ; it’s no use your telling 
me to go to sleej), for T Avon’t. Go to 


6 


MBS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


sleep, indeed ! I’m sure it’s almo.st time 
to get uj}. I liardly know wliat’s the use 
of coming to bed at all now. 

“ The Skylarks, indeed ! Isuijposeyou’ll 
be buying a ‘ Little Warbler,’ and at your 
time of life, be trying to sing. The i^ea- 
cocks will sing next. A pretty name you’ll 
get in the neighborhood ; and, in a very 
little time, a nice face you’ll liave. l"our 
nose is getting redder ali-eady : and you’ve 
just one of the noses that liquor always 
flies to. You don't see it’s red? No — I dare 
say not — but I see it ; / see a great many 
things you don’t. And so you’ll go on ! 
In a little time, Avith your brandy-and wa- 
ter — don’t tell me that you only take two 
small glasses : I know Avhat men’s two 
small glasses are ; in a little time you’ll 
have a face all over as if it Avas made of 
red currant-jam. And I should like to 
knoAv Avho’s to endure you then ? I Avon’t, 
and so don’t think it. Don’t come to me. 

“Nice habits men learn at clubs ! — 
There’s Joskins : he Avas a decent creature 
once, and now I’m told ho has more than 
once boxed his Avife’s ears. He’s a Sky- 
lark too. And I supijose, some day, you’ll 
be trying to box my ears ? Don’t attempt 
it, Mr. Caudle ; I say. Don’t attemi)t it. 
Yes — it’s all very Avell for you to say you 
don’t mean it, — but I only say again. Don’t 
attempt it. You’d rue it till the day of 
your death, Mr. Caudle. 

“Going and sitting for four hours at a 
tavern ! What men, unless they had their 
Avives Avith them, can find to talk about, I 
can’t think. No good, of cour.se. 

“ Eighteen-i)ence a Aveek — and drinking 
brandy-and-Avater enough to SAvim a boat ! 
And smoking like the funnel of a steam- 
shij) ! Audi can’t afford myself so much as 
a piece of tape ! It’s brutal, Mr. Caudle. 
It's A'e-Ae-A'e — ry bru — tab” 

“And here,” says Caudle,— “ here, thank 
Heaven ! at last she fell asleep. ” 


THE FOURTH LECTURE. 

ME. CATrr)I.E HAS BEEN CAIlLED FBOM HIS 

BED TO BAIL MR. ERETTVMAN FROM THE 

AVAtCH-HOUSE. 

“ Yes, Mr. Caudle, I kneAv it Avould 
come to this. I said it Avould, Avhen you 
joined those jirecious Skylarks. People 
being called out of their beds at all hours 
of the night, to bail a set of felloAvs Avho 
are ncA er so hapjiy as when they're lead- 
ing sober men to destruction. I should 
like to know Avhat the neighbors aviII think 
of you, Avith iieoifie from the police knock- 
ing at the door at tAvo in the morning. 
Don’; tell me that the man has been ill 
used ; he’s not the man to be ill-used. 
And you must go and bail him ! I knoAv 
the end of that : he’ll run away and you’ll 
have to jiay the money. I should like to 
know Avhat’s the use of my working and 
slaving to save a farthing, Avhen you throAV 
aAvay pounds u^ion your precious Sky- 
larks. A pretty cold you'll have to-mor- 
row morning, being called out of your 
Avarm bed this Aveather ; but don’t you 
think I’ll nurse you — not I ; not a drop of 
gruel do you get from me. 

“I’m sure you’ve plenty of Avays of 
spending your money — not throAving it 
aAvay uiion a pack of dissolute peace- 
breakers. It’s all very well for you to say 
you haven’t throAvn aAvay your money, but 
you Avill. He’ll be certain to run off ; it 
isn’t likely he’ll go ui)on his trial, and you’ll 
be fixed Avith the bail. Don’t tell me that 
there’s no trial in the matter, because I 
knoAV there is ; it’s for something more 
than quarreling Avith the policeman that 
he Avas locked uin Peo2)le ar’n’t Ipcked 
nil for that. No, it’s for robbery, or some- 
thing Avorse, iierhajis. 

“And as you’A'e bailed him, iieoiile will 
think you are as bad as he is. Don’t tell 
mo you couldn’t helii bailing him ; you 
should have shown younself a resjiectable 
man, and have let him been sent to jirison. 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTMN LECTURES. 


7 


“ Now peojjle know you’re the friend of 
drunken and disorderly j^ersons, yon’ll 
never have a night’s sleep in your bed. 
Not that it would matter what fell upon 
you. if it wasn’t your poor wife who siaf- 
fered. Of course all the business will be 
in the newsijajiers, and your name with it. 
I shouldn’t wonder, too, if they give your 
jufture as tliey do the other folks of the 
Old Bailey. A pretty tiling that, to go 
down to your children. I’m sure it will 
be enough to make them change their 
name. No, I shall not go to sleep ; it’s 
all very well for you to say. Go to sleeji, 
after such a disturbance. But I shall not 
go to sleeji, Mr. Caudle ; certainly not. ” 

“ Her will, I have no doubt,” says Cau- 
dle, “was strong ; but Nature was strong- 
er, and she did sleej? ; this night inflicting 
upon me a remarkably short lecture. ” 


THE Fn'TH LECTURE. 

MR. CAt-ULE HAS REMAJXEI) DOWX STAIRS 

Tllili r.VST ONE, WITH A FRIENI). 

“Pretty time of night to come to bed, 
Mr. Caudle. Ugh ! As cold, too, as ice. 
Enough to give any woman her death, I’m 
sure. MTiat ! I shouldn't have locked up 
the coals? If I hadn’t I’ve no doubt the 
fellow would have staid all night. It’s all 
very well for you, Mr. Caudle, to bring 
peojile home, — but I wish you’d think first 
what’s f )!• siippei’. That beautiful log of 
pork Avould have served for our dinner 
to-moiTow, — and now it’s gone, /can’t 
keep the house upon the money, and I 
won’t pretend to do it, if you bring a mob 
of peojile every night to clear out the cuii- 
board. 

‘ ‘ I wonder who’ll be so ready to give 
you a sniiper when you want one ; for 
want one you will unless you change your 
plans. Don’t tell mo ! I know I’m right. 


You’ll first be eaten up, and then you’ll 
bo laughed at. I know the world. No, 
indeed, Mr. Caudle, I don’t think ill of 
everybody ; don’t say that. But I can’t 
see a leg of j^ork eaten up in that way, 
without asking myself what it’s all to end 
in if such things go on ? And then he 
must have pickles, too ! Couldn’t be con- 
tent with my cabbage — no, Mr. Caudle, I 
won't let you go to sleep. It’s very well 
for you to say let you go to sleep, after 
you’ve kept me awake till this time. TFV/y 
did I keep awake ? How do you suppose I 
could go to sleep, when I knew that man 
was below drinking up your substance in 
brandy-and-water ? for he couldn’t be con- 
tent upon decent, wholesome gin. Upon 
my word, you ought to be a rich man, Mr. 
Caudle. You have such very fine friends. 
I wonder who gives you brandy when you 
go out 1 

“No, indeed, he couldn’t be content 
with my pickled cabbage — and I should 
like to know who makes better — but he 
must have walnuts. And you, too, like a 
fool — now don’t you think to stoj) me, 
Mr. Caudle ; a poor woman may be tram- 
pled to death, and never say a word — you, 
too, like a fool— I wonder Avho’d do it for 
you — to iu.sist upon the girl going out for 
pickled walnuts. And in such a night too! 
AVith snow upon the ground. Y’^es ; you’re 
a man of fine feelings, you are, Mr. Cau- 
dle ; but the Avorld doesn’t know you a-s I 
know you — fine feelings, indeed ! to send 
the poor girl out, when I told you, and 
told your friend, too — a pretty brute 
he is, I’m sure — that the jioor girl had got 
a cold and I dare say chilblains on her 
toes. But I know what will be the end of 
that ; she’ll be laid up, and we shall have 
a nice doctor’s bill. And you’ll pay it, I 
can tell you — for / won’t. 

“ Vote wish you were out of the world? 
Oh, yes I that’s all very easy. I’m sure / 
might wish it. Don’t swear in that dread- 
ful way ! Ar’n’t you afraid that the bed 
will open and swallow you ? And don’t 


8 


MES. CAUDLE’S CUETAIN LECTUEES. 


swing about in that way. That will tlo no 
good, llmt Avon’t bring l)ack tlie log of 
pork, and tlie brandy you’ve poured down 
both of your throats. Dh, I know it. I’m 
sure of it. I only reoolleeted it Avhen I’d 
got into bed, — and if it hadn’t been so 
cold, you’d liave seen me down stairs 
again, I can tell you ; I recollected it — and 
a pretty two hours I’ve passed — that I left 
the key in the eupboartl,— and I know it— I 
could see by the manner of you, when you 
came into the room — I know you’ve got at 
tlie other bottle. However, tliere’s one 
comfort : you told me to send for the best 
brandy — the very best — for your other 
friend, avIio called last Wednesday. Ila I 
ha ! It Avas British — the cheaiiest British 
— and nice and ill I hoiie the pair of you 
Avill be to-morroAv. 

“ There’s only the ba^’e bone of the leg of 
pork ; but you’ll get nothing else for din- 
ner, I can tell you. It’s a dreadful thing 
that the poor children should go Avithout, — 
but, if they have such a father, they, 
lioor things, must suffer for it. 

“ Nearly a Avhole leg of pork and a pint 
of brandy ! A pint of brandy and a leg of 
l>ork. A leg of— leg— leg — pint” — 

“And mumbling the syllables,” says 
Mr. Caudle’s MS., “she Avent to sleep.” 


THE SIXTH LECTUEE. 

MK. C.VUDLE H.VS LENT AX ACQUAINTANCE 
THE FAMILY UMHKELLA. 

“Th.vt’s the third umbrella gone since 
Christmas. What were yon to do ? Why, 
let him go home in the rain, to be sure. 
I’m very certain there Avas nothing about 
him that could spoil. Take cold, indeed ! 
He doesn’t look like one of the sort to take 
cold. Besides, he’d have better taken cold 
than take our only umbrella. Do you hear 
the rain, Mr. Caudle ? T say, do you hear 


the rain ? And as I’m aliAe, if it is n’t St. 
SAvithin’s Day ! Do you hear it against 
the Avindows ? Nonsense ; you don’t im- 
pose ui)on me. You can’t be asleej) Avith 
such a shower as that ! Do you hear it, I 
say ? Oh, you do hear it ! Well, that’s a 
pretty flood, I think, to last for six Aveeks ; 
and no stirring all the time out of the 
house. Pooh ! don’t think me a fool, Mr. 
Caudle. Don’t insult me. He return the 
umbrella. Anybody Avould think you Avere 
born yesterday. As if anybody ever did 
return an undtrella ! There— do you hoar 
it ? Worse and Avor.se ! Cats and dogs, 
and for six Aveeks — always six Aveeks. And 
no umbrella ! 

“ I should like to know how the child- 
ren are to go to school to-morroAV V TheA' 
shan't go through such Aveather, I’m de- 
termined. No : they shall stoj) at home 
and never learn anything — the blessed 
creatures ! — sooner than go and get wet. 
And AA nen they groAv up, I Avonder Avho 
they 11 have to thank for knoAving nothing, 
who, indeed, but their father ? People 
Avho can’t feel for their own children ought 
neA-er to be fathers. 

“But I kuoAv Avhy you lent the umbrel- 
la. O, yes ; I kiioAv A-ery Avell. I Avas go- 
ing out to tea at dear mother’s to-inorroAv — 
you kueAv that ; and you did it on jjur- 
pose. Don’t tell me ; you hate me to go 
there, and take every mean adA'antage to 
hinder me. But don’t you think it, Mr. 
Caudle. No, sir; if it comes doAvn in 
buckets-full. I’ll go all the more. No : 
and I A\ on t have a cab. W here do you 
think the money’s to come from ? Yoii’a'c 
got nice high notions at that club of yours. 
A cal), indeed ! Cost me sixteen-pence at 
least— .sixteen-pence ! tAvo-and-eightpence 
for there’s back again. Cabs, indeed ! I 
should like to knoAv avIio’s to pay for ’em ; 
/ can’t i)ay for ’em, and I’m sure you can’t, 
if you go on as you do ; throAving awaA* 
your i)roi)erty, and beggaring your child- 
ren- buying umbrellas ! 

“Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? 


MKS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


0 


I say, do you hoar it V But I don’t care — 
I’ll go to mother’s to-morrow ; I will ; and 
what's more, I'll walk every step of the 
way, — anti you know that will give me my 
death. Don’t call me a foolish woman ; 
it’s you that is the foolish man. You 
know that I can’t wear clogs ; and with no 
umbrella, the wet’s sure to give me a cold, 
it always does. But what do you care for 
that ? Nothing at all. I may he laid ujj 
for Avhat you care, as I dare say I shall — 
and a pretty doctor’s hill there’ll he. I 
hojje there will ! It will teach you to lend 
your umbrella again. I shouldn’t wonder 
if I caught my death ; yes : and that’s 
what you lent the umbrella for. Of 
course ! 

“ Nice clothes I shall get too, trapesing 
through weather like this. My gown and 
bonnet will he sijoilt quite. Needn't I 
we(ir 'em then ? Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I 
shall wear ’em. No, sir, I’m not going out 
a dowdy to please you or anybody else. — 
Gracious knows ! it isn’t often that I stej) 
over the threshold ; indeed, I might as 
well he a slave at once, — better, I should 
say. Btxt when I do go out, Mr. Caudle, I 
choose to go like a lady. Oh ! that rain — 
if it isn’t enough to break in the windows. 

“Ugh! I do look forward with dread 
for to-morrow ! How I’m going to moth- 
er’s I’m sure I can’t tell. But if I <lie. I’ll 
do it. No, sir ; I won’t borrow an um- 
brella. No ; and you shan’t buy one. — 
Now, Mr. Caudle, only listen to this : if 
you bring home another umbrella. I’ll 
throw it in the street. I’ll have my own 
umbrella, or none at all. 

“ Ha ! and it was only last week I had a 
new nozzle jiut to that umbrella. I’m 
sure, if I’d have known as much as I do 
now, it might have gone without one for 
me. Paying for new nozzles, for other 
2ieopleto laugh at you.' Oh, it’s very well [ 
for you — you can go to sleeiJ. You’ve no I 
thought of your jjoor jiatient wife, and ; 
your own dear children. You think of j 
nothing but lending umbrellas ! i 


“Men. indeed! — call themselves lords 
of the creation ! — ju'etty lords when they 
can’t even take (.‘are of an umbrella ! 

“ I know that walk to-morrow will l)e 
the death of me. But that’s what you 
want — then you may go to your club, and 
do as you like — and then, nicely my jxior 
dear children Avill be used — but then, sir, 
then you'll be happy. Oh, don’t tell me ! 
I know you will. Else you’d never lent 
the umbrella ! 

“You have to go on Thursday about 
that summons ; and, of course, you can’t 
go. No, indeed, you don't go without the 
umbrella. You may lose the debt for what 
I care — it won’t bo so nmch as siioiling 
your clothes — better lose it : i)eo2Ale de- 
serve to lose debts who lend umbrellas ! 

“ And I should like to know how I’m to 
go to mothers without the umbrella ? Oh, 
don’t tell me that I said I would go — that’s 
nothing to do with it ; nothing at all. 
She’ll think I'm neglecting her, and the 
little money we Avere to have, A\'e shan’t 
haA'e at all — because Ave’ve no umbrella. 

“ The children, too ! — Dear things ! — 
They’ll be so2)2)ing Avet : for they sha’nt 
sto2) at home — they shan’t lose their learn- 
ing ; it’s all their father Avill leave ’em, 
I’m sure. But they shall go to school. 
Don’t tell me I said they shouldn’t ; you 
are so aggravating, Caudle ; you’d s2)oil 
the tem2Jer of an angel. They shall go to 
school ; mark that. And if they get their 
deaths of cold, it’s not my fault — I didn’t 
lend the umbrella.” 

“At length,” Avrites Caudle, “I fell 
aslee2> ; and dreamt that the sky Avas turn- 
ed into green calico, Avith whalebone ribs; 
that, in fact, the Avhole Avorld turned round 
under a tremendous umbrella !” 


10 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


THE SEVENTH LECTURE. | 

Mil. CAUDLE HAS VENTURED A REMONSTRANCE j 
ON HIS day’s dinner : COLD arUTTON AND { 
NO PUDDING. — MRS. CAUDLE DEFENDS THE 
COLD SHOULDER. 

“ I’m sure ! Well ! I w onder what it will 
be next ? There’s nothing proper, now — 
nothing at all. Better get somebody else 
to keep the house, I think. I can’t do it 
now, it seems ; I’m only in the way here : 
I’d bettor take the children, and go. 

•• Wliat am I gimmbling about, now ? 
It’s very well for you to ask that ! I’m 
sure I’d better be out of the world than — 
there now. Mr. Caudle ; there you are 
again ! I shall speak, sir. It isn’t often I 
open my mouth, Heaven knows ! But you ! 
like to hoar nobody talk but yourself. You 
ought to have married a negro slave, and 
not any resi^ectable woman. 

“You’re to go about the house looking 
like thunder all the day, and I’m not to 
say a word. Where do you think pud- 
ding’s to come from every day ? You show' 
a nice examine to your children, you do ; 
coinjilaining, and turning your nose up at 
a sweet piece of cold mutton, because 
there’s no pudding ! You go a nice way 
to make ’em extravagant — teach ’em nice 
lessons to begin the Avorld with. Do you 
know w'hat jiuddings cost ; or do you think 
they fly in at the. window ? 

“You hate cold mutton. The more 
shame for you, ]\Ir. Caudle. I’m sure 
you’ve the stomach of a lord, you have. 
No, sir ; I didn’t choose to hash the mut- 
ton. It’s very easy for you to say hash it ; 
but I know Avhat a joint loses in hashing : 
it’s a day’s dinner the less, if it’s a bit. 
Yes, I dare say ; other people may have 
puddings with cold mutton. No doubt of 
it ; and other people become bankrupts. 
But if ever you get into the “ Gazette,” it 
sha’nt be my fault — no ; I’ll do my duty as 
a wife to you, l\Ir. Caudle ; you shall never 
have it to say that it was my housekeei)ing 


I that brought you to beggary. No ; you 
may sulk at the cold meat — ha ! I hope 
! you’ll never live to want such a piece of 
I cold mutton as we had to-day ! and you 
may threaten to go to a tavern to dine ; 
but, with our iiresent means, not a crumb 
of pudding do you get from me. You 
shall have nothing, but the cold joint — 
nothing, as I’m a Christian sinner. 

“Yes ; there you are, throwing those 
fowls in ray face again ! I know you once 
brought home a pair of fowls ; I know' it : 
but you w'ere mean enough to want to stop 
’em out of my week’s money ? Oh, the 
selfishne.ss — the shabbiness of men ! They 
can go out and throw aw'ay pounds uiion 
pounds with a pack of i)eople who laugh 
at ’em afterwards ; but if it’s anything 
! wanted for their ow'n homes, their poor 
wives may hunt for it. I w'onder you 
don’t blush to name those fowls again ! I 
w'ouldn’t bo so little for the world, Mr. 
Caudle ! 

“What are you going to do ? Going to 
get up ? Don’t make yourself ridiculous, 
Mr. Caudle ; I can’t say a word to you like 
any other wife, but you must threaten to 
get ui"). Do be ashamed of yourself. 

“ Puddings, indeed ! Do you think I’m 
made of puddings ? Didn’t you have some 
boiled rice three weeks ago ? Besides, is 
this the time of the year for puddings ? 
It’s all very well if I had money enough 
allow'ed me like any other wife to keep the 
house with ; then, indeed, I might have 
preserves like any other woman ; now', it’s 
impossible ; and it’s cruel — yes, Mr. Cau- 
dle, cruel — of you to expect it. 

“ Apples so dear, are they? I know 
W'hat apples are, Mr. Caudle, without your 
telling me. But I suppose you want some- 
thing more than apples for dumplings ? 
I suppose sugar costs something, doesn’t 
it ? And that’s how' it is. That’s how one 
expense brings on another, and that’s how 
people go to ruin. 

'' Pancakes? What’s the use of your 
' lying muttering there about pancakes V 


MRS. CAUDLE S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


11 


Don’t yon always have ’em once a year- 
every Shrove Tuesday ? And what would 
any moderate, decent man, Avant more ? 

“Pancakes, indeed ! Pray, Mr. Candle, 

— no, it’s no useyoiir saying fine Avords to ]go for a dessert ; and 
me to let you go to sleep ; I sha’n’t ! — pray 
do yon knoAV the price of eggs just now ? 

There’s not an egg yon can trust to under 
seven and eight a shilling ; well, you’ve 
only just to reckon up how many eggs — 
don’t lie SAvearing there at the eggs, in 
tliat manner, Mr. Caudle ; unless you ex- 
l)ect the bed to let you fall through. You 
call yourself a res2)ectablo tradesman, I 
KuiAjJose ? Ha ! I only Avish peoi)le knew 
you as Avell as I do ! SAvearing at eggs, 
indeed ! But I’m tired of this usage, Mr. 

Caudle ; quite tired of it ; and I don’t care 
hoAv soon it’s ended ! 

“I’m SAxre I do notliing but Avork and j 

labor, and think Iioav to make the most of ;mk. CArnnE has been made a mason. — 
everything ; and this is Iioav I’m rewarded, j .mbs. caudle indignant and cxirious. 

I should like to see anybody Avhose joints 

go further than mine. But if I Avas to! “ Noa\-, Mr. Caudle, — ]Mr. Caudle, I say : 
tliroAV away your money into the street, or |oh ! you can't be asleej) alrea<ly, I know — 
lay it out in line feathei’s on my.self, I 'noAV Avhat I mean to say is this ; there’s no 
sliould be better thought of. The Avoman juse, none at all, in our having anydis- 
Avho studies her husband and iier familv is iturbance about the matter; but, at last 


have a imdding every day ; — oh, I know 
your extravagance — then you’d' go for 
fish — tliQn I shouldn’t wonder if you’d 
have souj) ; turtle, no doubt : then you’d 
oh ! I see it all as 
idain as the quilt before me — but no, not 
Avhile I’m alive ! "What your second Avife 
may do, I don’t knoAv ; perha 2 >s she'll be a 
fine lady ; but you shan’t be ruined by 
me, Mr. Caudle ; that I’m determined. 
Puddings, indeed! Pu-dding-s ! Pud” — ■ 

“Exhausted nature,” says I\Ir, Caudle, 
“ could hold out no longer. She Aveut to 
8lee2i.” 


THE EIGHTH LECTURE. 


ahvays made a drudge of. It’s your fine 
fal-ral Avives who’ve the best time of it. 
“What’s the use of your lying groan- 


my mind’s made U2), Mr. Caudle, I shall 
leave you. Either I knoAv all you’ve been 
doing to-night, or to-morroAV morning I 


ing there in that manner? That Avon’t quit the house. No, no ; there’s an end of 


make me hold my tongue, I call tell you. 
Y'ou think to have it all vour oAvn Avav — 


the marriage-state, I think — an end of all 
confidence betAveen man and Avife — if a 


but you Avon’t, Mr. Caudle ! Y'^ou can in- husband’s to have secrets and kee2i ’em all 
suit my dinner ; look like a demon, I may 'to himself. Pretty secrets they must be, 
say, at a Avholesome 2 hece of cold mut- ! when his own Avife can’t know ’em ! Not 


ton — ah ! the thousands of far better crea- 
tures than you are Avho’d been thankful 
for that mutton ! — and I’m never to s 2 )eak. 
But you’re mistaken — I Avill ! Y'our usage 
of me, Mr. Caudle, is infamous — uiiAvorthy 


fit for any decent 2’<?r3on to knoAv, I’m 
sure, if that’s the case. Noav, Caudle, 
Caudle, don’t let us quarrel, there’s a good 
soul, tell me Avhat’s it all about ? A 25nek 
of nonsense, I dare say ; still, — not that I 


of a man. I only Avish 2>eo2)le kneAv you jcare much about it, — still I should like to 
for Avhat you are ; but I’ve told you again knoAV. There’s a dear. Eh? Oh, don’t 


and again thev shall some dav. 


'tell me there’s nothing in it : I know bet- 


“ Puddings ! .‘.ml now I su 2 )po.se I shall jter. I’m not a fool, Mr. Caudle ; I know 
heal' of nothing but ])udding.s 1 Y'es, and itliere’s a good deal in it. Noav, Caudle ; 
I knoAv Avhat it Avill end in. First, vou’d just tell me a little bit of it. I’m sure 
2 


12 


:MKS. CAUDLE'S CUKTAIX LECTUKES, 


IM tell you auy thing. A'cn know I Avoiiltl. 
AVell ? 

“ Candle, you’re enough to vex a saint ! 
XoAV, don't you think you’re going to 
sleep ; because you’re not. Do you sup- 
])o.se I'd ever suffered you to go and be 
made a nmson, if I didn’t sujipose I Ava.s 
to know the secrets too ? Xot that it’s 
any thing to knoAV, I dare say ; and that’s 
Avhy I’m determined to knoAA' it. 

“But I knoAv Avhat it ; oh yes, there can 
be no doubt. The secret is, to ill-use poor 
Avomen ; to tyrannize over ’em ; to make 
’em your slaves ; especially your avIa'cs. 
It must be something of the sort, or you 
Avouldn’t be ashamed to liaAe it known. 
AAdiat’s right and projAer neA’er need be 
done in secret. It’s an insult to a AA'oman 
for a man to be a free-mason, and let his 
Avife knoAV nothing of it. But, poor soul ! 
she’s sure to knoAv it somehoAA— for nice 
husbands they all make. Tes, A’es : a part 
of the secret is to think better of all the 
Avorld than their OAvn AviAes and families. 
I’m sure men haA^e qiiite enough to care 
for — that is, if they act properly — to care 
for them they have at home. They can’t 
liaA^e much care to spare for the Avorld be- 
sides. 

“And I suppose they call you Brother 
Caudle ? A i)retty brother, indeed ! Go- 
ing and dressing yourself up in an ai)ron 
like a turn2nke man— for that’s Avhat yoii 
look like. And I should like to kuo\A' 
Avliat the apron’s for ? There must bo 
something in it not A'ery resiiectable, I’m 
sure. 'Well, I only wish I was Queen for 
a day or two. I’d ijut an end to free-ma- 
sonry, and all such trumiAery, I knoAA'. 

“ XoAv, come, Caudle ; don’t let’s quar- 
rel. Eh ! you’re not in pain, dear ?— 
What’s it all about ? What are you lying 
laughing there at ? But I’m a fool to 
trouble my head about you. 

“And you’re not going to let me knoAV 
the secrets, eh '? You mean to saj^ — you’re 
not ? XoAv, Caudle, you knoAv it’s a hard 
matter to i>ut me in a jjassion — not that I 


care about the secret itself : I wouldn't 
give a button to know it, for it’s all non- 
sense, I’m sure. It iui't the secret I care 
about : it's the slight, Mr. Caudle ; it's 
the studied insult that a man pays to his 
Avife, Avhen he taiidcs of going through the 
AA'orld keeijing something to himself Avhich 
he Avon’t let her knoAv. Man and Avife one, 
indeed ! I should like to knoAV how that 
can be Avhen a man’s a mason — Avhen he 
keejAs a secret that sets him and his Avife 
ajiart ? Ha, you men make the laws, and 
so you take good care to have the best of 
’em to yourselves : otherAvise a Avoman 
ought to be alloAved a divorce Avhen a man 
becomes a mason : when he’s got a sort of 
corner-cujAboard in his heart — a secret 
l)lace in his mind — that his i^oor Avife isn’t 
allowed to rummage ! 

“Caudle, you sha’n’t close your eyes for 
a Aveek — no, you sha’n’t — unless you tell 
me some of it. Come, there’s a good crea- 
ture ; there’s a loAe I’m sure, Caudle, I 
Avouldn’t refuse you auy thing — and you 
knoAv it, or ought to knoAV it by this time. 
I only Avish I had a secret ! To Avhom 
should I think of confiding it, but to my 
dear husband '? I should be miserable to 
keei) it to mvself, and you knoAv it. Xoav, 
Caudle ? 

“Was there ever such a man ? A man, 
indeed ! A brute ! — yes, Mr. Caudle, an 
unfeeling, brutal creature, Avhenyou might 
oblige me, and you Avon’t. I’m sure I don’t 
object to you’re being a mason ; not at all, 
Caudle ; I dare say it’s a A'ery good thing ; 
I dare say it is — it’s only your making a 
secret of it that vexes me. But you'll tell 
me — you'll tell youroAvn Margaret ? Y'ou 
Avon’t ! You’re a Avretch, Mr. Caudle. 

“ But I knoAv Avhy : ch, yes, I can tell. 
The fact is, you’re ashamed to let me 
kuoAv Avhat a fool they’ve been making of 
you. That’s it. You, at your time of 
life — the father of a family ! I should be 
ashamed of myself, Caudle. 

“And I suiiiAOse you’ll be going to what 
you call your Lodge CA-ery ’ night, now ? 


MUS. CAUDLE’S CUKTAIN LECTURES. 


13 


Locl^^e, indeed ! Pretty place it must be, 
whei’e they don’t admit women. Nice go- 
ings on, I dare .say. Then you call one 
another brethren. Brethren ! I’m sure 
you’d relations enough ; you didn’t want 
any more. 

“But I know what all this masonry’s 
about. It’s only an excuse to get away 
from your wives and families, that you 
may feast and drink together : that’s all. 
That's the secret. And to abuse women, 
— as if they were inferior animals, and not 
to be trusted. That’s the seci’et ; and noth- 
ing else. 

“Now, Caudle, don’t let us quarrel. 
Ye.“, I know you’re in pain. StiU, Caudle, 
my love ; Caudle ! Dearest, I say — Cau- 
dle !” 

“I recollect nothing more,” says Cau- 
dle, “for I had eaten a hearty supijer, anci 
somehow became oblivious. ” 


THE NINTH LECTURE. 

MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO GREENWICH FAIR. 

“ So, Mr. Caudle : I hope you’ve enjoy- 
ed yourself at Greenwich. Iloir do I l iioii' 
ifou've been at ? I know it very 

well, sir : know all about it ; know more 
than you think I know. I thought tliere 
Avas something in the Avind. Yes, I Avas 
sure of it, Avhen tou A\ ent out of the house', 
to-day. I kneAV it by the looks of you, 
though I didn’t say anything. Ui)on my 
Avord ! And you call yourself a respecta- 
ble man, and the father of a family ! Go- 
ing to a fair among all sorts of people, — at 
your time of life. Yh's ; and never think 
of taking your Avife Avith you. Oh no ! 
you can go and enjoy yourself out, Avith / 
don’t knoAV aa ho : go out, and make your- 
self veu’v pleasant, I dare say. Don't tell 
me ; I hear Avhat a nice companion Mr. 
l!audle is ; Avhat a good-tem2)ered i)erson. 


Ha ! I only Avish iieoide could see you at 
home, that^s all. But so it is Avith men. 
They can keeii all their good temiier for 
out-of-doors — their AviA’es never see any of 
it. Oh dear ! I'm sure I don’t knoAV who’d 
be a lAOor woman ! 

“ Noav, Caudle, I’m not in an ill tem- 
Ijer ; not at all. I iiiioAv I used to be a fool 
Avhen Ave Avere first married : I used to 
Avorry and fret myself to death Avhen you 
Avent out ; but I’ve got over that. I Avould 
n’t put myself out of the Avay noAv for the 
best man that eA’er trod. For what thanks 
does a poor Avoman get ? None at all. 
No : it’s those aa'Iio don’t care for their 
families, who are the best thought of. I 
only Avish I could bring myself not to care 
for mine. 

“ And Avhy couldn’t you .say, like a man, 
you Avere going to Greenwich Fair AA'hen 
Avent out ? It’s no use your saying that, 
Mr. Caudle ; don’t tell me that you didn’t 
think of going ; you’d made your mind u}) 
to it, and you knoAv it. Pretty games 
you’ve had, no doubt ! I should like to 
liaA'e been behind you, that’s all. A man 
at your time of life ! 

“And I, of course, I never Avant to go 
out. Oh no ! I may stay at home Avith 
the cat. Y'ou couldn’t think of taking 
your Avife and children, like any other de- 
cent man, to a fair. Oh no ; you never 
care to be seen AA'ith us. I’m sure, many 
l)eoi)le don’t knoAV you’re married at all ; 
hoAV can they ? Y’our Avife’s never seen 
Avitli yon. Oh no : anybody but those be- 
longing to you ! 

“ GreeuAvich Fair, indeed I Yes, — and 
of course you Avent uji and doAvn the hill, 
running and racing Avith nobody knoAvs 
Avho. Don’t tell me ; I knosv Avhat you 
are AA'hen you’re out. Y'ou don’t sniijiose, 
Mr. Caudle, I’ve forgotten that i>ink bon- 
net, do you ? No : I Avon’t hold my tongue, 
and I’m not a foolish AA'oman. It’s no mat- 
ter, sir, if the jiink bonnet Avas tifty years 
ago — it’s all the same for that. No ; and 
if I live for fifty years to come, I never Avill 


!^mS. CAUDLE’S CUDTAIN LE CTURES. 


leave off talking of it. You ouglit to be 
ashameJ of yourself, INIr.' Caudle. Ha! 
few wive.s would have been what I’ve been 
to you. I only wish my time was to come 
over’ again, that’s all ; I wouldn’t be the 
fool I have been. 

“Going to a fair 1 and I sujjpose you 
had your fortune told by the gypsies ? 
You needn’t have wasted your money. 
I’m sure I can tell you your fortune if you 
go* on as you do. Y’^es, the jail will be 
your fortune, Mr. Caudle. And it would 
be no matter — none at all — if your wife | 
and children didn’t suffer with you. j 

“And then you must go riding upon' 
donkeys. — You didn't go riding upon don- 
JceyR ? Yes ; it’s very >,vell for you to say ^ 
so ; but I dare say you did. I tell you, | 
Caudle, I know wdiat you are when you’re j 
out. I wouldn’t trust any of you — you, j 
especially, Caudle. j 

“ Then you must go in the tliick of the ' 
fair, and have the girls scratching your ] 
coat with rattles ! You couldn't help it, if j 
they did scratch your coat? Don’t tell me ; i 
Ijeojile don’t scratch coats unless they’re | 
encouraged to do it. And you must go in ' 
a swing, too. You didn't go in a swing ? \ 
Well, if you didn’t, it was no fault of ’ 
yours ; you wished to go, I’ve no doubt, j 

“And then you must go into the shows? ^ 
There, — you don’t deny that. Y'^ou did go i 
into a show. What of it, Mr. Caudle ? — A j 
good deal of it, sir. Nice crowding and j 
squeezing in those shows, I know. Pretty j 
jdaces ! And you a married man and the 
father of a family. No, I won’t hold my j 
tongue. It’s very well for you to threat- 
en to get up. You’re to go to Greenwich j 
Fair, and race up and down the hill, and j 
play at kiss in the ring. Pah ! it’s dis- 1 
gusting, Mr. Caudle. Oh, I dare say you 
did jilay at it ; if you didn’t, you’d have 
liked, and that’s just as bad ; — and you 
can go into swings, and shows, and round- 
abouts. If I was you, I should hide my 
head under the clothes, and be ashamed 
of myself. 


“And what is most selfish — most mean 
of you, Caudle— you can go and enjoy 
yourself, and never so much as bring 
home for the poor children a gingerbread 
nut. Don’t tell me that your pocket was 
picked of a pound of nuts ! Nice eom2iany 
you must Jiave been in to have your j')Ock- 
et i^icked. 

“ But I dare say I shall hear all about 
it to-morrow. I’ve no doubt, sir, ycu 
were dancing at the Crown-and-Anchor. 
I should like to have seen you. No ; I’m 
not making myself ridiculous. It’s yoti 
that’s making yourself ridiculous ; and 
everybody that knows you says so. Every 
body knows what I have to put up Avith 
from you. 

“ Going to a fair, indeed ! And at youi- 
time”— 

“Here,” says Caudle, “I dozed off, 
hearing confusedly the Avords — hill — gyp- 
sies — rattles— roundabouts — BAving.s — jAink 
bouuet^ — nuts. ” 


THE TENTH LECTURE. 

ox MR. C.VtTDLE’S .SHntT-BUTTONS. 

“Well, Mr. Caudle, I hojAe you’re in a 
little better temiAer than you Avere in thi.s 
morning ? There — you needn’t begin to 
whistle : jAeojAle doil’t come to bed to Avhis- 
tle. But it’s like yoxt. I can’t sjAeak, that 
you don’t try to insult me. Once, I used 
to say you Avere the best creature living : 
noAV, you get quite a fiend. Do let you 
rest? No, I A\'on’t let you rest. It’s the 
only time I have to talk to you, and a’ou 
shall hear me. I’m jAut ujAon all day long: 
it’s very hard if I can’t sjAeak a word at 
night : besides, it isn’t often I ojAcn my 
mouth, goodness knoAvs ! 

“Because once in your lifetime your 
shirt Avanted a button you must almost 
swear the roof off the house ! You didn't 
‘ swear ? Ha, IMr. Caudle ! you don’t know 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 15 


Avhat you do when you’re in n pas.si6n. 

were not in a passion ? "Wer’n’t you ? 
Well, then, I don’t know what a passion 
is — and I think I ought by this time. I've 
lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, 
to know that. 

“It’s a pity that you haven’t something 
worse to complain of than a button off 
your shirt. If you’d some w ives, I know 
you would. I'm sure I’m never without 
a needle-and-thread in my hand. What 
with you and the children, I’m made a 
perfect slave of. And what’s my thanks ? 
Why, if once in your life a button’s off 
your .shirt — what do you cry ^ oh' at? — I 
say once, Mr. Caudle ; or twice, or three 
times, at most. I’m sure, Mr. Caudle, no 
man’s buttons in the world are better 
looked after than yours. I only wish I 
liad kei)t the shirts you had when you 
were first married ! I sliould like to know' 
where were your buttons then ? 

“Yes, it is worth talking of ! But that’s 
how you always try to jjut me down. You 
fiy into a rage, and then if I only try to 
si)eak you won’t hear me. That’s how 
you men always will have all the talk to 
yourselves : a poor woman isn’t allowed 
to get a word in. 

“A nice notion you have of a wife, to 
supiiose she’s nothing to think of but her 
husband’s buttons. A pretty notion, in- 
deed, you have of marriage. Ha ! if poor 
women only knew Avhat they had to go 
through ! What with buttons, and one 
thing and another ! They’d never tie them- 
selves up — no, not to the best man in the 
world, I’m sure. What would the^ do, Mr. 
Caudle? Why, do much better without 
you, I’m certain. 

“ -^d it’s my belief, after all, that the 
button wasn’t oft' the shirt ; it’s my belief 
tliat you pulled it off, that you might have 
something to talk about. Oh, you’re ag- 
gravating enough, when you like, for any 
thing ! All I know is, it’s very odd that 
tlie button should be off the shirt ! for I’m 
sure no woman's a greater slave to her j 


husband’s buttons than I am. I only say, 
it’s very odd. 

“ However, there’s one comfort ; it can’t 
last long. I’m worn to death with your 
temper, and sha’n’t trouble you a great 
while. Ha, you may laugh ! And I dare 
say you would laugh ! I’ve no doubt of 
it ! Tliat’s your lo > e — that’s your feeling ! 
I know that I’m sinking eveiy day, though 
I say nothing about it. And when I’m 
gone, we shall see how your second wife 
will look after your buttons. Yoii’ll find 
out the dift'erence, then. Yes, Caudle, 
you’ll think of me, then : for then, I hope, 
you’ll never have a blessed button to your 
back. 

“No, I’m not a vindictive woman, Mr. 
Caudle ; nobody ever called me that, but 
you. What do you say ? Nobody ever 
knew so much of me? That’s nothing at 
all to do with it. Ha ! I wouldn’t have 
your aggravating temper, Mr. Caudle, for 
mines of gold. It’s a good thing I’m not 
as worrying as you are — ov a nice house 
there’d be between ns. I only wish you’d 
had a wife that would have talked to you ! 
Then you’d have known the difference. 
But you impose upon me, because, like a 
poor fool, I say nothing. I should be 
ashamed of myself, Caudle. 

“And a pretty example you set as a 
father ! You’ll make your boys as bad 
as yourself. Talking as you did all break- 
fast-time about your buttons ! And of a 
Sunday morning too ! And you call your- 
self a Christian ! I should like to know 
what your boys will say of you when they 
grow up ? All about a paltry button off 
one of your wristbands ! A decent man 
wouldn’t have mentioned it. Why won't 
I hold my t mrine? Becaiise I wont hold 
my tongue. I’m to have my peace of mind 
destroye<I — I’m to be worri<‘d into my grave 
for a miserable shirt button, and I’m to 
hold my tongue ! Oh ! but that’s just 
like you men ! 

“ But I know what I’ll do for tlie fu- 
ture. Every button you have may drop 


10 


iMES. CAUDLE*f4 CUETAIJs LECTUKE>S. 


off, and I won’t so inucli as i)ut a thread 
to ’em. And I should like to know what 
vou’ll do then ? (.)h, you must get some- 
hody else to sew ’em, must you? That’s 
a i)retty threat for a husband to hold out 
to a wife ! And to such a wife as I’ve been, 
too : such a negro-slave to your buttons, as 
I may^ say ! Homebody else to sew ’em, 
eh ? No, Caudle, no : not while I’m alive! 
Wlien I’m dead — and Avith what I have to 
bear there’s no knowing how soon that 
may be— when I’m dead, I say — oh ! what 
a brute you must be to snore so ! 

“ You're not snoi'iny? Ha ! that’s what 
you always say ; but that’s nothing to do 
with it. You must get somebody else to 
seAv ’em, must you ? Ha ! I shouldn’t 
Avonder. Oh, no ! I should be surjjiised 
at notliing, noAv ! Nothing at all ! It’s 
Avhat people have ahvays told me it Avould 
come to, — and uoav the buttons liaA^e open- 
ed my eyes ! But the Avhole Avorld shall 
knoAv of your cruelty, Mr. Caudle. After 
the Avife I’ve been to you. Somebody else, 
indeed, to scav your buttons 1 I’m no 
longer to be mistress in my oavu house ! 
Ha, Caudle ! I Avouldn’t have upon my 
conscience AAdiat you have, for the Avorld ! 
I Avouldn’t treat anybody as you treat — 
no, I’m not mad 1 It’s you, Mr. Caudle, 
Avho are mad, or bad — and that’s worse ! 
I can’t eA'en so much as speak of a shirt- 
button, but that I’m threatened to be made 
nobody of in my own house ! Mr. Caudle, 
you’ve a heart like a hearth-stone, you 
have 1 To threaten me, and only because 
a biitton — a button” — 

“I Avas conscious of no more than this,” 
.says Caudle ; “ for here Nature relieved 
me Avith a sweet, deep sleep.” 


! THE ELEVENTH LECTUEE 

MRS. CAUDLE SUGGESTS THAT HER DEAR 
MOTHER SHOULD “COME AND LIA'E AVITII 
THEM. ” 

1 

“Is your cold better to-night, Caudle? 

' Yes ; I thought it Avas. ’T Avill be quite 
I Avell to-morroAv, I dare say. There's a 
love ! You don’t take care enough of your- 
j self, Caudle, you don’t. And you ought, 

' I’m sure ; if only for my sake. For Avhat- 
I eA'er I should do, if anything Avas to hai>- 
j jAen to you — but I Avon’t think of it ; no, I 
I can’t bear to think of that. Htill, you 
j ought to take care of yourself ; for you 
I knoAv you’re not strong, Caudle ; you 
: knoAv you’re not. 

I “ Wasn’t dear mother so hajAiAy Avith us, 

I to-night ? Noav, you needn’t go to slee]), 
so suddenly. I say, Avasn’t she so hapi)y? 

, You don't knoir ? Hoav can you say you 
j don’t knoAV ? You must have seen it. 

I But she always is happier here than any- 
' Avhere else. Ha ! Avhat a temjjer that dear 
j soul has ! I call it a temper of satin ; it is 
I so smooth, so easy, and so soft. Nothing 
j puts her out of the Avay. And then, if you 
only kneAv how she takes your part, Cau- 
I die ! I’m sure, if you had been her own 
' son ten times over, .she couldn’t be fonder 
of you. Don’t you think so, Caudle ? Eh, 
love ? Noav, do answer. Jloir canyon felt? 
Nonsense, Caudle ; you must have seen it. 
I’m sure, nothing delights the dear soul 
so much as Avhen she’s thinking hoAv to 
please you. 

j “Don’t you remember Thursday night, 

! the stcAved oysters Avhen you came home ? 

' That Avas all dear mother’s doings ! ‘ Mar- 
garet,’ says she to me, ‘it’s a cold night ; 

; and don’t you think dear Mr. Caudle 
! Avould like something nice before he goc's 
j to bed ?’ And that, Caudle, is hoAv the 
oysters came about. Noav, don’t sleoj), 
Caudle : do listen to me for five minutes : 

, ’t isn’t often I speak, goodness knoAvs. 
j “And then, Avhat a tuss she makes Avhei' 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


17 


you’re out, if your slippers ar’n’t put to 
the fire for you. ' She's very good? Yea — 
I know she is, Caudle. And hasn’t she 
been si.x months — though I promised her 
not to tell you — six months working a 
watch-pocket for you ! And with her eyes, 
dear soul — and at hei' time of life ! 

“And then what a cook she is ! I’m sure 
the dishes she’ll make out of next to noth- 
ing ! I try hard enough to follow her : 
but, I’m not ashamed to OAvn it, Caudle, 
she quite beats me. Ha ! the many nice 
little things she’d simmer up for you — 
and I can’t do it ; the children, you know | 
it, Caudle, take so much of my time. I 
can’t do it, love ; and I often reproach my- 
self that I can’t. Now you sha’n’t go to 


sleeji, Caudle ; at least, not for five min- aie dear mother makes ! You nerei' tasted 


you’re not asleep, Caudle — if she was only 
living with us, you could have marrow- 
jiuddings every day. Now, don’t fling 
yourself about and begin to swear at mar- 
row-puddings ; you know you like ’em, 
dear. 

“ What a hand, too, dear mother has for 
a i>ie-crust ! But it’s born with some iieo- 
l)le. What do you say ? Why icasn't it 
horn v'ith me? Now, Caudle, that’s cruel 
— \infeeling of you ; I wouldn’t have utter- 
ed such a reijroach to you for the Avhole 
world. Consider, dear ; peo23le can’t be 
born as they like. 

“How often, too, have you Avanted to 
brew at home ! And I neA’er could learn 
anything about brewing. But, ha ! Avhat 


utes. You must hear me. 

“I’ve been thinking, dearest — ha ! that 
nasty cough, love !■ — I’ve been thinking, 
darling, if we could only jAersuade dear 
mother to come and live Avith us. Noav, 
Caudle, you can’t be asleej) ; it’s impossi- 
ble — you Avere coughing this minute — ^j-es, 
to live Avith us. What a treasure Ave should 
have in her ! Then, Caudle, you neA’er 
need go to bed Avithout something nice 
and hot. And yoii Avant it, Caudle 
don't leant it? Nonsense, you do ; for 
you're not strong, Mr. Caudle ; you knoAV 
you’re not. 

“I’m sure, the money she’d save us in 
house-keeinng. Ha ! Avhat an eye she has 
for a joint ! The butcher doesn’t walk that 
could deceive dear mother. And, then, 
again, for ijoultry ! What a finger and 
thumb she has for a chicken ! I never 
could market like her ; it’s a gift — quite a 
gift. 

“And then you recollect her marroAv- 
puddings ? You don't recollect 'em? Oh, 
fie ! Caudle, hoAV often have you flung her 
marroAV-puddings in my face, Avanting to ’ 


it? No, I knoAv that. But I recollect the 
ale we used to liaA^e at liome : and father 
never Avould drink Avine after it. The best 
sherry Avas nothing like it. You dare say 
not? No ; it Avasn’t indeed, Caudle. Then, 
if dear mother Avas only Avith us Avhat mon- 
ey Ave should saA’e in beer ! And then you 
might ahvays have your nice, inire, good, 
Avholesome ale, Caudle : and what good it 
would do you ! For you’re not strong. 
You I Caudle. 

“ And then dear mother’s jams and pre- 
seiwes, love ! I own it, Caudle ; it has 
often gone to my heart that with cold 
meat you haven’t always had a jiudding. 
Noav, if mother was with us, in the matter 
of fruit jiuddings, she’d make it summer 
all the year round. But I iieAcr could 
lireserve — iioav mother does it, and for 
next to no money whateA’er. Wliat nice 
dogs-in-a-blanket she’d make for the chil- 
dren ! What's dogs-in-a-bhoiKet ? They’re 
delicious — as dear mother makes ’em. 

“ Now you have tasted her Irisli steAv, 
Caudle ? You remember that ? Come, 
you’re not asleep — you remember that ? 


knoAV why I couldn’t make ’em ? And I j And Iioav fond you are of it ! And I knoAv 
Avouldn’t 2)retend to do it after dear moth- j I iieA'er have it made to 2dease you ! Well, 
er. I should think it 2)i’esum2Ation. Noav, | Avliat a relief to me it Avould bo if dear 
love, if she Avas only living Avith us — come, \ mother Avas always at hand that yon might 


18 


IMES. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


have a stew when you liked. What a load 
it would be off my mind. 

“Again, for pickles! Not at all like 
anybody else’s pickles. Her red cabbage 
— why, it’s as crisp as a biscuit ! And 
then her walnuts — and her all-sorts ! Eh, 
Caudle ? You know how you love pickles; 
and how we sometimes tiff about ’em ? 
Now if dear mother was only here, a word 
would never pass between us. And I'm 
sure nothing would make me hajjpier, for 
— you’re not asleep, Caudle ? — for I can’t 
bear to quarrel, can 1, love ? 

“ The children, too, are so fond of her ! 
.\nd she’d be such a heli^ to me with ’em ! 
I’m sure, with dear mother in the house, I 
shouldn’t care a fig for measles, or any- 
thing of the sort. As a nurse, she’s such 
a treasure ! 

“ And at her time of life, what a needle- 
woman ! And the darning and mending 
for the children, it really gets quite be- 
yond me now, Caudle. Now with mother 
at my hand, there wouldn’t be a stitch 
wanted in the house. 

“ And then, when you’re oiit late, Cau- 
dle — for I know you must be out late, 
sometimes ; I can’t expect you, of course, 
to be always at home — why, then dear 
mother could sit up for you, and nothing 
would delight the dear soul half so much. 

“ And so, Caudle, love, I think dear 
mother had better come, don’t you ? Eh, 
Caudle ? Now, you’re not asleep, darling ; 
don’t you think she’d better come ? You 
say No ? Y'^ou say No again ? You won't 
Juive her, you say ; you xcon't, — that's flat? 
Caudle — Cau-Cau-dle — Cau — die” — 

“ Here Mrs. Caudle,” says her husband, 
“suddenly went into tears ; and I went to 
sleep. ” 


tSe twelfth lecture. 

MK. CAUDLE H.WING COME HOME A LITTLE 

L.V.TE, DECLAKES THAT HENCEFORTH “HE 

WILL H.WE A KEY.” 

“Upon my word, Ylr. Caudle, I think 
it a waste of time to come to bed at all 
now ! The cocks will be crowing in a 
minute. llV-fj/ did I sit up, then ? Be- 
cause I choose to sit up — but that’s my 
thanks. No, it’s no use your talking, 
Caudle ; I never idll let the girl sit up for 
you, and there’s an end. What do you 
say? Why does she sit up inth me, then? 
That’s quite a difterent matter : you don’t 
suppose I’m going to sit up alone, do 
you ? What do you say ? the use 

of two sitting up? That’s my business. 
No, Caudle, it’s no such thing. I don't sit 
up because I may have the pleasure of 
talking about it ; and you’re an ungi’ateful, 
unfeeling creature, to say so. I sit up be- 
cause I choose it ; and if you don’t come 
home all the night long — and ’t will come 
to that, I’ve no doubt— still, I’ll never go 
to bed, so don’t think it. 

“ Oh yes 1 the time runs away very pleas- 
antly with you men at your clubs — selfish 
creatures ! You can laugh and sing, and 
tell stories, and never think of the clock ; 
never think there’s such a person as a wife 
belonging to you. It’s nothing to you 
that a poor woman’s sitting up, and tell- 
ing the minutas, and seeing all sorts of 
things in the fire — and sometimes think- 
ing something dreadful has happened to 
you — more fool she to care a straw about 
you ! — this is all nothing. Oh no ! when 
a woman’s once married she’s a slave — 
worse than a slave — and must bear it all ! 

“And what you men can find to talk 
about I can’t think ! Instead of a man 
sitting every night at home with his wife, 
and going to bed at a Christian hour, — go- 
ing to a club, to meet a set of iieojile who 
don’t cai’e a button for him, — it’s mon- 
strous 1 What do you say ? You onJy go 


JilKS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


19 


o)ice a week? That’s nothing at all to do 
with it ; you might as well go every night; 
and I dare say you will soon. But if you 
do, you may get in as you can : / won’t sit 
up for you, I can tell you. 

“ jNIy health’s being destroyed night af- 
ter night, and — oh, don’t say it’s only once 
a week ; I tell you, that’s nothing to do 
with it — if you had any eyes, you would 
see how ill I am ; but you’ve no eyes for 
anybody belonging to you ; oh no ! your 
eyes are for people out of doora. It’s very 
well for you to call me a foolish, aggravat- 
ing woman ! I should like to see the wom- 
an who’d sit up for you as I do. Von 
didn't leant me to sit up? Yes, yea; that’s 
your thanks — that’s your gratitude : I’m 
to ruin my health, and to be abused for it. 
Nice princii^les you’ve got at that club, 
l\Ir. Caudle ! 

“But there’s one comfort — one great 
comfort ; it can’t last long : I’m sinking — 
I feel it, though I never say anything 
about it — but I know my own feelings, 
and I say it can’t last long. And then I 
should like to know who Avill sit up for 
you ! Then I should like to know how 
your second wife — what do you say ? 
You’ll never be troubled with another ? — 
Troubled, indeed ! / never troubled you, 

Caudle. No ; it’s you who’ve troubled 
me ; and, you know it ; though, like a fool- 
ish woman, I’ve borne it all, and never said 
a word about it. But it can’t last — that’s 
one blessing ! 

“ Oh, if a Avoman could only knoAV what 
she’d have to suffer, before she was mar- 
i-ied — Don’t tell me you Avan’t to go to 
sleep ! If you Avant to go to sleep, you 
should come home at proper hours ! It’s 
time to get up, for Avhat I knoAv, noAv. 
Shouldn’t Avonder if you hear the milk in 
five minutes — there’s the span-OAvs up al- 
ready ; yes, I say the sparrows ; and, Mr. 
Caudle, you ought to blush to hear ’em. 
You don’t hear ’em ? Ha ! you won’t hear 
’em, you mean : /hear ’em. No, Mr. Cau- 
dle ; it isn’t the wind whistling in the key- 


hole ; I’m not quite foolish, though you 
may think so. I hope I knoAv Avind from 
a sjAarroAv ! 

“Ha ! Avhen I think Avhat a man you 
were before we Avere married ! But you’re 
noAV another person — quite an altered crea- 
ture. But I suppose you’re all alike — I 
dare say, every poor Avoman’s troubled 
and put uijon, though I should hope not 
so much us I am. Indeed, I should hope 
not ! Going and staying out, and — 

“ "What ! You’ll have a key ? Will you ? 
Not Avhile I’m alive. Mi*. Caudle. I’m not 
going to bed Avith the door upon the latch 
for you or the best man living. You won't 
hare a latch-you’ll hare a Chubb’s lock ? Will 
you ? I’ll have no Chubb here, I can tell 
you. What do you say ? You’ll have the 
lock put on to-morrow ? Well, try it ; that’s 
all I say, Caudle ; try it. I Avon’t let you 
put me in a passion ; but all I say, is— try it. 

“A resi)ectable thing, that, for a mar- 
ried man to cany about Avitn him,-a street- 
door key.: That tells a tale, I think. 
nice thing for the father of a family ! A 
key ! What, to let yourself in and out 
Avhen you ijleaso ? To come in, like a 
thief in the middle of the night, instead of 
knocking at the door like a decent jier- 
son ! Oh, don’t tell me that you only 
Avant to i^revent me sitting up, — if I choose 
to sit up, Avhat’s that to you ? Some AviA-es, 
indeed, would make a noise about sitting 
uj), but you’ve no reason to complain, — 
goodness knoAvs ! 

“Well, upon my word, I’a'c lived to 
hear something. Carry the street-door 
key about Avith you ! I’ve heard of such 
things Avith good-for-nothing bachelors, 
Avith nobody to care Avhat became of ’em ; 
but for a married man to leave his Avife 
and children in a house Avitli the door up- 
on the latch — don’t talk to me about 
Chubb, it’s all the same — a great deal you 
must care for us. Yes, it’s very Avell for you 
to say, that you only Avant the key for i)eaco 
and quietness — Avhat’s it to you, if I like 
to sit up ? You’ve no business to com- 


20 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


plain ; it can’t distress yon. Now, it’s no 
xise your talking ; all I say is tliis, Caudle: 
if you send a man to put on any lock here, 
I’ll call in a policeman : as I’m your mar- 
ried wife, I will ! 

“No, I think when a nian comes to have 
the street-door key, the sooner he turns j 
bachelor altogether the better. I’m sure, j 
Caudle, I don’t want to be any clog ii])on ■ 
you. Now, it’s no use your telling me to 
hold my tongue, for I — What ? / gh'fi 

you the hendache, do I? No, I don’t, Cau- 
dle ; it’s your club that gives you the head- 
ache : it's your smoke, and yoiu’ — well ! if 
ever I knew such a man in all my life ! 
there’s no saying a word to you ! You go 
out, and treat 3'onrself like an emiDeror — 
and come home at twelve at night, or any 
hour, for Avhat I know,— and then yon 
threaten to have a key, and — and — and” — 

“I did get to sleep at last,” says Cau- 
dle, “ amidst the falling sentences of ‘ take 
children into a lodging’ — ‘ sejiarate main- 
tenance’ — ‘ won’t be made a slave of’ — and 
so forth.” 


THE THIRTEENTH LECTURE. 

MBS. CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO SEE HEK DEAE 
MOTHEE. — CAUDLE ON THE “ JOYFim OC- 
CASION,” HAS GIVEN A PABTY. 

“It is hard, I think, Mr. Caudle, that 
I can’t leave home for a day or two, but 
the house must be turned into a tavern ; a 
tavern ? — a pot-liouse '? Yes, I thought 
you were very anxious that I should go ; 

I thought you wanted to get rid of me for 
something, or you would not have insisted 
on my staying at dear mother’s all night. | 
You were afraid I should get cold coming j 
home, were you ? Oh, yes, you can be ' 
veiy tender, you can, Mr. Caudle, when it 
suits your own })urpose. Yes ! and the 1 
world thinks what a good husband you ' 


are ! I only wish the world knew you as 
Avell as I do, that’s all ; but it shall, some 
day, I’m determined. 

“I’m sui’e the house will not be sweet 
for a month. All the curtains are poison- 
ed with smoke ; and, what’s more, with the 
tillhiest smoke I ever knew. Take 'em 
doicn, then ? Y'es, it’s all very well for you 
to saj’, take ’em down ; but they were only 
cleaned and put up a month ago ; but a 
careful wife’s lost upon you, Mr. Caudle. 
Y"ou ought to have married somebody 
who’d have let your house go to wreck 
and ruin, as I will for the future. People 
who don’t care for their families are better 
thought of than those who do ; I’ve long 
found out that. 

“And what a condition the carjiet’s in ! 
They’ve taken five pounds out of it, if a 
farthing, with their tilthy boots, and I 
don't know what besides. And then the 
smoke in the hearth-rug, and a large cin- 
der-hole burnt in it ! I never saw such a 
house in my life ! If you wanted to have 
a few friends, why couldii’t you invite ’em 
when your Avife’s at home, like any other 
man ? not have ’em sneaking in like a set 
of housebreakers, directly a woman turns 
her back. They must be pretty gentle- 
men, they must ; mean fellows, that are 
afraid to face a Avoman ! Ha ! and you all 
call yoursel\es the lords of the creation ! 
I should only like to see aa hat Avould Ix^- 
come of the creation, if you Avere left to 
yourseh'es ! A very pretty pickle creation 
Avould be in very soon ! 

“You must all haA'e been in a nice con- 
dition ! What do you say? You took 
nothing? Took nothing, didn’t you ? I'm 
sure there’s such a regiment of empty bot- 
tles, I haven’t had the heart to count ’em. 
And i)uneh, too ! you must have punch ! 
There’s a hundred half-lemons in the kitch- 
en, if there’s one : for Snsan, like a good 
girl, kept ’em to show ’em me. No, sir ; 
Susan sha'n't leave the house! What do 
you say ? She has no right to tell tales, <nid 
you AAULL he master of your oirn house? 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CUETAIN LECTURES. 


21 


j’ou ? If yon don t alter, Mr. Cau- 
dle, you’ll soon have no house to be ma.s- 
ter of. A whole loaf of sugar did I leave 
in the cupboard, and now there isn’t as 
much as Avould fill a tea-ciip. Do you sup- 
pose I’m to find sugar for i)unch for fifty 
men ? What do you say ? There v'((S)i'^ 
ffty? That’s no matter ; the more shame 
for ’em, sir. I’m sure they drank enough 
for fifty. Do ycu suppose out of my house- 
keeping money I’m to find sugar for 2)unch 
for all tlu^ Avorld ? Yon me'* Don’t 

you ask me ? A"ou do ; you know you 
do ; for if I only Avant a shilling exti’a, the 
house is in a blaze. And yet a AA’hole loaf 
of sugar can you throAv away uiAon — No, I 
■iron't be still ; and I Avon’t let you go to 
sleeji. If you’d got to bed at a jiroper 
hour last night, you wouldn’t have been 
so sleejAy now. A'ou can sit aiji half the 
night AA'ith a jiack of iieojile Avho don’t 
care for you, and your poor Avife can’t get 
in a Avord ! 

“And there’s that China image that I had 
Avhen I Avas married — I Avouldn’t have tak- 
en any sum of money for it, and you knoAv 
it — and hoAV do I find it ? With its pre- 
cious head knocked off'! And Avhat Avas 
more mean, more contemiitible than all be- 
sides, it Avas i)ut on again, as if nothing 
had haiipened. • You. liieir nothUxj nhout it'* 
Noav, hoAV can you lie there, in your Chris- ^ 
tian bed, Caudle, and say that ? You knoAv 
that that fellow, Prettyman, knocked off' ! 
the head with the poker ! Y"ou knoAV that 
he did. And you hadn’t the feeling, — yes, 

I Avill say it, — you hadn’t the feeling to 
jirotect Avhat you knew Avas 2)recious to 
me. Oh, no, if the truth Avas known, you 
Avere glad to see it broken for that A'cry 
reason. 

“Every Avay, I’A*e been insulted. I 
should like to knOAV Avho it Avas who cork- i 
(‘d Avhiskers on my dear aunt’s iiicture ? j 
Oh, you’re laughing, are you? You' re \ 
not laughing? Don’t tell me that. I should 
like to know Avhat shakes the bed, then, if i 
you’re not laughing ? Aes, corked Avhisk- 


I CIS on her dear face, — and she Avas a good 
I soul to you, Caudle, and you ought to be 
I ashamed of youn;elf to see her ill-used. 
Oh, you may laugh I It’s A’ery easy to 
I laugh ! I only Avish you’d a little feeling, 
like other jAeoide, that’s all. 

I “ Then there’s my China mug — the mug 
j I had before I Avas married — Avhen I was 
I a hajApy creature. I should like to knoAV 
Avho knocked the sijout off that mng ? 
Don’t tell me it Avas cracked before — it’s 
■ no such thing, Caudle ; there Avasn’t a tlaAv 
' in it — and noAv, I could have cried Avhen I 
saAv it. Don’t tell me it Avasn’t Avorth tAvo- 
l^ence. How do you know ? Y’^ou never 
buy mugs. But that’s like men ; they 
! think nothing in a house costs anything, 
j “There’s four glasses broke, and nine 
' cracked. At least, that’s all I’A-e found 
I out at i)resent ; but I dare say I shall dis- 
' coA'er a dozen to-mojTOAv. 

“And I should like to knoAV Avhere the 
cotton umbrella’s gone to — and I should 
i like to knoAV Avho broke the bell-jAull — and 
I jAerhaps you don’t knoAv there’s a leg off' a 
[ chair, — and jAerhajAs” — 

“I Avas resolved,” says Caudle, “to 
knoAv nothing, and so Avent to sleep in my 
ignorance.” 


THE FOURTEENTH LECTURE. 

AIKS. CAt'DIiE THINKS IT “HIGH TIAIE ” THAT 
THE CHILIAREN SHOTTED HAA'E STTMMEH 
CLTATHIXG. 

“If there’s anything in the Avorld I hate 
— and you knoAV it, Caudle — it is asking 
you for money. I am sure, for myself, I’d 
rather go Avithout a thing a thousand times, 
and I do — the more shame of you to let me, 
but — there, noAv ! there you fly out again ! 
What do I want vow? Why, you must 
knoAv Avhat’s Avanted, if you’d any eyes — 
or any jAride for yonr chihlren, like any 


22 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CUKTAIN LECTURES. 


other father. Wficct's the maUei' — and icliat 
ani I driring at? Oh, nonsense, Caudle! 
As if you didn’t know ! I’m sure if I’d 
any money of my own, I’d never ask you 
for a farthing ; never ; it’s painful to me, 
goodness knows ! What do you say ? If 
if'x pain ful, u'hy so often do it ? Ha ! I sup- 
po.se you call that a joke — one of your club 
jokes ? I wish you’d think a little more 
of 2 >eople’s feelings, and less of your jokes. 
As I say, I only wish I’d money of my own. 
If there is anything that humbles a i)oor 
woman, it is coming to a man’s i)ocket for 
every farthing. It’s dreadful ! 

“Now, Caudle, ifeveryou kept awake, you 
shall keei) awake to-night — yes, you shall 
hear me, for it isn’t often I speak, and then 
you may go to sleej) as soon as you like. 
Pray do you know what month it is ? And 
did you see how the children lookeil at 
church t(^-day — like nobody else’s (diil- 
dren ? What teas the matte)' with theni ? O 
Caudle ! How can you ask ? Poor things! 
wei'cn’t they all in their thick merinos, and 
beaver bonnets ? What do you say ? IThai 
of it? What ! you'll tell me that you did 
n’t see how the Briggs’s girls, in their new 
chilis, turned their noses up at ’em ? And 
you didn’t see how the Browns looked at 
t’ue Smiths, and then at our dear girls, as 
much as to say, ‘Poor creatures ! what lig- 
Ures for the month of May !’ You didn't 
see it ? The more shame for you — you 
would, if you’d had the feelings of a pa- 
rent — but I’m sorry to say, Caudle, you 
haven’t. I’m sure those Bx'iggs’s girls — 
the little minxes ! — put me into such a 
pucker, I could have pulled their ears for 
’em over the pew. What do you say ? / 
ought to be ashamed of myself to own it? 
No, 311’. Caudle : the shame lies with you, 
that don’t let your children appear at 
church like other people’s children ; that 
make ’em uncomfortable at their devo- 
tions, poor things ; for how can it be 
otherwise, when they .see themselves dre.ss- 
ed like nobody else ? 

“Now, Caudle, it’s no use talking ; those 


children shall not cro.ss the thi-eshold next 
Sunday, if they haven’t things for the sum- 
mer. Now mind — they sha’n’t ; and there’s 
an end of it. I won’t have ’em exposed to 
the Briggses and the Browns again ; no, 
they shall know^ they have a mother, if 
•they’ve no father to feel for ’em. What 
do you say, Caudle ? A good deal I must 
thhdc of chio'ch, if 1 think so much of what 
we go in ? I only wish you thought as 
much as I do, you’d be a better man than 
you are, Caudle, I can tell you ; but that's 
nothing to do with it. I’m talking about 
decent clothes for the children for the 
summer, and you want to put me oil’ with 
something about the church ; but that’s 
.so like you, Caxxdle ! 

“ Z’;« always iranting money fo)' clothes ? 
How can you lie in your bed and say that ? 
I’m sure there’s no children in the world 
that cost their father so little : but that's 
it ; the less a poor woman does upon, the 
less she may. It’s the wives who don’t 
care where the money comes from who’re 
best thought of. ()h, if my time was to 
come over again, would I mend and stitch, 
and make the things go so far as I have 
done ? No — that I wouldn’t. Yes, it’s 
very well for you to lie there and laugh ; 
it’s ea.sy to laugh, Caudle — very easy to 
people who don’t fttel. 

“ Now, Caudle, dear I What a man you 
are ! , I know you'll give me the money, 
because, after all, I think you love your 
children, and like to see ’em well dressed. 
It’s only natural that a father should. Eh, 
Caudle, eh ! Now you shan’t go to sleep 
till you’ve told me. How much nioney do 
I want? Why, let mo see, love. There’s 
Cai’oline, and Jane, and Susannah, and 
3Iary Anne, and — What do you say ? / 

needn't count 'eni, you know how many tho'e 
are? Ha ! that’s just as you take me u]). 
Well, how much money will it take ? Let 
me see ; and don’t go to sleep. I'll tell 
you in a minute. You always love to see 
the dear things like new pins, I know 
that, Caudle ; and though I say it — blo.ss 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


23 


their little hearts ! — they do credit to you, j 
Caudle. Any nobleman of the land might 
be proud of ’em. Now don’t swear at no- j 
blemen of the land, and ask me what they ! 
have to do with your children ; you know i 
what I meant. But you are so hasty, j 
Caudle. j 

How much? Now, don’t be in a hur- j 
ry ! Well, I think, with good pinching — 
and you know, Caudle, there’s never a wife 
who can pinch closer than I can — I think, 
with close pinching, I can do with twenty 
pounds. What did you say ? T'wenti/ fid- 
dle-sdcks? What? You won't give half 
the money? Very well, Mr. Caudle : I don’t 
care : let the children go in rags ; let them 
sto2} from church, and grow uiJ like hea- 
thens and cannibals, and then yori’ll save 
your money, and, I sui^pose, be satisfied. 
You gave me twenty pounds fire months ago 
What’s five months ago to do with now ? 
Besides, what I have had is nothing to do 
with it. 

“ MTiat do you say? Ten pounds are 
enough? Yes: just like you men; you 
think things co,st nothing for women ; but 
you don’t care how much you lay out ui)on 
yourselves. They only want bonnets and 
frocks? How do you know what they 
want ? How should a man know jinything 
at all about it ? And you won’t give me 
more than ten jjouuds ? Yeiy well. Then 
you may go shoi^iung with it yourself, and 
see what you'll make of it. I’ll have none 
of your ten j^o ands, I can tell you. No, 
sir,— no; you have no cause to say that. 

/ don't want to dress the children up like 
countesses ! You often fling that in my 
teeth, you do : but you know it’s Mse, 
Caudle ; yori know it. I only want to j 
give ’em i)roi)er notions of themselves ; I 
and what, indeed, can the i)Oor things 
think when they see the Briggses, and 
the Browns, and the Smiths — and their 
fathers don’t make the money you do, 
Caudle — when they see them as fine as 
tulips ? Why they must think themselves 
nobodv ; and to think vourself nobodv, — 1 


de2)end upon it, Caudle, — isn’t the way to 
make the world think anything of you. 

“What do you say ? Where did I pick 
up that ? AVhere do you think ? I know 
a great deal more than you suppose — yes ; 
though you don’t give me credit for it. 
Hu.sbauds seldom do. However, the twen- 
ty pounds I will have, if I’ve any — or not 
a farthing. 

“ No, sir, no. 1 don', want to dre^ss up the 
children like peacocks and parrots' I only 
want to make ’em resjiectable and — what 
do you say ? You'll give fifteen pounds? 
No, Caudle, no — not a iienny will I take 
under twenty ; if I did, it would seem as 
if I wanted to waste your money : and I’m 
sure, when I come to think of it, twenty 
pounds will hardly do. Still, if you give 
me twenty — no, it’s no use your offering 
me fifteen, and wanting to go to sleei>. 
You sha’n’t close an eye until you i)romi.so 
the twenty. Come, Caudle, love ! — twen- 
ty, and then you may go to sleej^. Twen- 
ty — twenty — twenty”— 

“ My imijre.ssion is,” writes Mr. Caudle, 
“ that I fell asleej} sticking firmly to the 
fifteen ; but in the morning Mrs. Caudle 
assured me, as a woman of honor, that she 
wouldn’t let me wink an eye, before 1 
2»x'omi.sed the twenty : and man is frail — 
and woman is strong— she had the money. ” 


THE FIFTEENTH liECTURE. 

MK. C.VUDIiE HAS AG.VIN STAYED OUT LATE. — 
MKS. CAUDLE, AT FIRST INJURED AND VI- 
OLENT, MELTS. 

“Perilaps, Mr. Caudle, you’ll tell me 
where this is to end ? Though, goodne.s 8 
knows, I needn’t ask that. The end is 
2>lain enough. Out — out — out ! Every 
night — every night ! I’m sure, men who 
can’t come home at reasonable hours have 
no business witli wives : they have no right 


24 


MliS. CAUDLE'8 CUKTAIN LECTUKES. 


to destroy other j^eople, if they choose to ^ 
go to destruction themselves. Ha, lord ! j 
Oh, dear ! I only hope none of my girls 
will ever marry — I hope they’ll none of : 
’em ever be the slave their poor mother j 
is ; they shan’t if I can lieli^ it. What do 
you say ? Xolhiug ? Well, I don’t won- 
der at that, Mr. Caudle ; you ought to be 
ashamed to speak ; I don’t wonder that j 
you can't ojjen your mouth. I’m only as- j 
tonished that at such hours you have the ! 
confidence to knock at your own door. , 
Though I’m yoiir wife, I must say it, I do 
sometimes wonder at your impudence. i 
What do you say? Xothhir/? Ha! you 
are an aggravating creature, Caudle ; lying 
there like the mummy of a man, and never I 
as much as oijening your lips to one. 
Just as if your own wife wasn’t worth an- j 
swering ! It isn’t so when you’re out, I'm ! 

sure. Oh, no ! then vou can talk fast ! 

I 

enough ; here, there’s no getting a word 
from you — and you know it. t 

“ Out^ — out every night ! What ? You j 
lidve }it been out this week before ? That’s j 
nothing at all to do with it. You might j 
just as well be out all the week as once — j 
just ! And I should like to know what I 
could keej) you out till these hours ? 7b«,s- j 
iuess? Oh, yes — I daresay ! Pretty bus- 1 
iness a married man and the father of a | 
family must have out of doors at one i.n 
the morning. What ! I shdil drive >/ou 1 
luted? Oh, no ; yoii haven’t feelings enough ; 
to go mad — you'd be a better man. Can- j 
die, if you had. 117// / listeu to t/ou ? ■ 
What's the use ? Of coui-se you’ve some ' 
story to put mo off with— you can all do ; 
that, and laugh at us afterwards. 

“ No, Caudle, don’t say that. I'm not 
always trying to ffnd fault — not I. It's 
you. I never speak but Avhen there’s oc- 
casion ; and what in my time I’ve put up 
with, there isn't anybody in the world that 
knows. Will I hear your story ? Oh, you 
may tell it if you i)lease ; go on : only i 
mind, I shan't believe a word of it. I’m | 
not such a fool as other women are, I can I 


tell you. There, now — don’t begin to 
swear — but go on — 

— “And that’s your story, is it ? That's 
your excrr.se for the horrrs y otr keep ! That’s 
yorrr apology for rrndermining my health 
and rrtining your family ! What do you 
think yoirr children will say of yorr when 
they grow rrp — going and throwing away 
yorrr money upon good-for-nothing, pot- 
house acepraintarree ? He's not a jiot-bouse 
actjuaiid eiice ? Who is he, then ? Come, 
you haverr’t told nrethat ; brrt I know — it's 
that Prettyman ! Y"es, to be srrre it is ! 
Upon my life ! Well, if I’ve hardly I'iv- 
tience to lie in the same bed ! I’ve wanted 
a silver teapot these five years, and yorr 
inrrst go and throw away as inrrch moner’ 
as — what ! You kacu't thrown it eeiftiy ? 
Haven’t you ! Then my iranre’s not Mar- 
garet, that’s all I know ! 

“ A matr gets arrested, and becatrse he's 
taken from his rvife and family, and locked 
02 ), yorr must go and trorrble yorrr head 
with it ! And yorr mrrst be mixing your- 
self rri) with nasty sheriff's officers — • 
I'm srrre yorr're not fit to enter a decent 
house — and go running from lawyer to 
lawyer to get bail, and settle the business, 
as yorr call it ! A 2 )retty settlement yorr 'll 
make of it — mark my words ! I'es — and 
to ineird the matter, to finish it quite, yorr 
mrrst be one of the bail ! That any man 
who isn’t a born fool should do srrch a 
tiling for another. Do yorr think anybody 
worrld do as mrrch for yorr ? I'es Yorr 
say yes ? Well, I only wish — jrrst to show 
that I’m right — I only wish you were in a 
condition to try ’em. I shorrld only like 
to see you arrested. Yorr’d find the differ- 
ence — tlifit yorr worrld. 

“What’s othev 2 )eo 2 )le's affairs to yorr ? 
If you were locked rr 2 ), deirend rr 2 )on it, 
there’s not a sorrl worrld conie near yorr. 
No ; it’s all very fine now, when 25eo2)le 
think there isn’t a chance of yorrr being in 
trouble — brrt I shorrld only like to see 
Avhat they’d say to you if you were in a 
sponging-house. Yes — I should enjoy 


MKS. CAUDLE’S CUKTAIN LECTURES. 


that, just to show you that I’m always 
right ^\’hat do you say ? You think bet- 
ter of the irorld ? Ha ! that would he all 
very well if you could afford it ; hut you’re 
not in means, I know, to think so well of 
people as all that. And of course they 
only laugh at you. ‘ Caudle’s an easy 
fool,’ they ci-y, — I know it as well as if I 
heard ’em, — ‘ Caudle’s an easy fool, any- 
body may lead him.’ Yes; anybody hut 
his own wife ; and she — of course — is no- 
body. 

“And now, everybody that’s arrested 
will of course send to you. Y"es, Mr. Cau- 
dle, you’ll have your hands full now, no 
doubt of it. You’ll soon know every spong- 
ing-house and every sheriff’s officer in 
London. Your business will have to take 
care of itself ; you'll have enough to do to 
run from lawyer to lawyer after the busi- 
ness of other people. Now, it’s no use 
calling me a dear soiil — not a bit ! No ; 
and I sha’n’t i)ut it off till to-morrow. It 
isn’t often I si)eak, but I will speak now. 

“I wish that Pretty man had been at the 
bottom of the sea before — what ? It isn't 
Prethjmnn ? Ha ! it’s very well for you to 
say so ; but I know it is ; it’s just like him. 
He looks like a man that’s always in debt 
— that’s always in a sponging-house. Any- 
body might swear it. I knew it from the 
very first time you. brought him here — 
from the very night he jjut his nasty, dirty 
wet boots on my bright steel fender. Any 
woman could see what the fellow Avas in a 
minutj;. Piettyman ! A pretty gentleman, 
truly, to be robbing your Avife and family ! 

“Why couldn’t you let him stop in the 


I 


sponging Noav don’t call upon Heaven ; 

in that Avay, and ask me to be quiet, for \ 
I Avon’t. Why couldn’t you let him stop j 
there ? He got himself in ; he might have i 
got himself out again. And you must j 
keep me aAvake, ruin my slee}), my health, | 
and, for Avhat you care my peace of mind. ! 
Ha ! everybodA' but you can see how I’m , 
breaking. Y"ou can do all this Avhile you j 


are talking Avith a set of low bailiffs ? A ^ 


25 

great deal you must think of your chil- 
dren to go into a laAvyer’s office. 

“And then you must be bail — you must 
be bound — for Mr. Prettyman ! Y'ou may 
say, bound ! Yes — you’A-e your hands nice- 
ly tied, noAv. Hoav he laughs at you— and 
serve you right ! Why, in another Aveek 
he’ll be in the East Lidies ; of course, he 
Avill ! And you’ll have to pay his debts ; 
yes, your children may go in rags, so that 
Mr. Prettyman — Avhat do you say ? It isn't 
Pretttjmon ? I knoAv better. Well, if it 
isn't Prettyman that’s kept you out,— if it 
isn’t Prettyman you’re bail for, — aa'Iio is it 
then ? I ask, Avho is it then ? What ! 
^^|j brother ? Brother Tom ? O Caudle ! 
dear Caudle” — 


“ It Avas too much for the poor soul,” 
says Caudle ; “she sobbed as if her heart 
would break, and I” — and here the MS. is 
blotted, as though Caudle himself had 
drojit tears as he Avrote. 


THE SIXTEENTH LECTURE. 

B.\nY IS TO BE CHBISTEXEl) ; JIBS. CAUDEE 
CANAEVSSES THE MERITS OF I'KOBABLE GOO- 
FATHERS. 

“Come, uoav, love, about baby’s name ? 
Tlie dear thing’s three months old, and 
not a name to its back yet. There you go 
again ! Talk of it to-niorroAv ! No ; Ave’ll 
tadv of it to-night. There’s no having a 
Avord Avith you in the daytime — but here 
yon can’t IcaAe me. Noav don’t say you 
Avish you could. Candle ; that’s unkind, 
and not treating a Avife— especially the 
Avife I am to you — as she deserves. It 
isn’t often that I speak ; but I do believe 
you’d like never to hear the sound of my 
voice. I might as Avell have been born 
dumb ! 

“I suppose the baby liaA-e a god- 
father; and so, Caudle, who shall Ave hav’e? 


26 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


"NYUo do you think will he able to do the ^ 
most for it ? No, Candle, no ; I’m not a j 
selfish woman — nothin" of the sort — but 
I hope I’ve the feelings of a mother ; and 
what’s the use of a godfather, if he gives 
nothing else to the child but a name ? A 
child might almost as well not be clu’is- 
tened at all. And so who shall we have ? 
What do you say ? Anitbodtt ? Ar’n’t you 
ashamed of yourself, Caudle ? Don’t you 
think something will happen to you, to 
talk in that way ? I don’t know where 
you i)ick up such principles. I’m think- 
ing who there is among our acquaintance 
who can do the most for the blessed creat- 
ure, and you say, — Anybody?' Caudle, 
you’re quite a heathen. 

“There’s Wagstaff. No chance of his 
ever marrying, and he’s very fond of ba- 
bies. He’s plenty of money, Caudle ; and 
I think he might be got. Babies, I know 
it — babies are his weak side. Wouldn’t it 
be a ble.s.sed thing to find our dear child 
in his will ? Why don’t you speak ? I 
declare, Caudle, you seem to care no more 
for the child than if it was a stranger’s. 
People who can’t love children more than 
you do, ought never to have ’em. You 
don't like Waysbiff? No more do I much ; 
but what’s that to do with it ? People 
who’ve their families to jirovide for, mu.st 
n’t think of their feelings. I don’t like 
him ; but then I’m a mother, and love my 
baby ! You won't have Waystaff, and that's 
flat? Ha, Caudle, you’re like nobody else 
• — not fit for this world, you’re not. 

“What do yoii think of Pugsby ? I can’t 
bear his wife ; bnt that’s nothing to do 
with it. 1 know my duty to my babe : I 
wish other people did. What do you say ? 
Puysby's a ivkked fellow ? Ha ! that’s like 
you — always giving people a bad name. ' 
We mustn’t always believe what the world 
says, Caudle; it doesn’t become us as Chris- 
tians to do it. I only know that he hasn’t 
a chick or child ; and, besides that, he’s 
very strong interest in the Blue-coats ; and 
so, if Pugsby Now, don’t fly out at 


I the man in that manner. Caudle, you 
j ought to 1)8 ashamed of yourself ! AWu 
' can’t speak well of anybody. Where do 
you think to go to ? 

“ What do you say, then, to Sniggins ? 
Now, don’t bounce round in that way, let- 
ting the cold air into the bed ! What’s the 
matter with Sniggins ? You wouldn't ask 
him a favor for the world? Well, it’s a 
good thing the baby has somebody to care 
for it ; I Avill. What do you say ? 1 

ska' n't? I will, I cau tell you. Sniggins, 
besides being a warm man, has good in- 
terest in the Customs ; and there’s nice 
pickings there, if one only goes the right 
way to get ’em. It’s no u.se, Caudle, your 
fidgeting about — not a bit. I’m not going 
to have baby lost — sacrificed, I may say, 
like its brothers and sisters. ^Vh<(t do I 
mean by sacrificed? Oh, you know what 
I mean very well. What have any of ’em 
got by their godfathers beyond a half- 2 )int 
mug, a knife and fork, and 8i)oon — and a 
shabby coat, that I know was bought sec- 
ond-hand, for I could almost swear to the 
place ? And then there was your fine 
friend Hartley’s wife — what did she give 
to Caroline ? Why, a trum 2 )ery lace ca 2 ) 
it made me blush to look at. What ? It was 
the best she could afford? Then she’d no 
right to stand for the child. Peo 2 )le who 
can’t do better than that have no business 
to take the res 2 )onsibility of godmother. 
They ought to know their duties better. 

“Well, Caudle, you can’t object to Gold- 
man ! Yes, you do / Was there ever* such 
a man ? What for ? He's a usurer and a 
hunks? Well, I’m sure, you’ve no busi- 
ness in this world, Caudle ; you have such 
high-flown notions. Why, isn’t the man 
as rich as the bank ? And as for his being 
' a usurer, — isn’t it all the better for those 
who come after him ? I’m sure it’s well 
there’s some people in the world who save 
money, seeing the stupid creatures who 
throw it away. But you are the strangest 
man ! I really believe you think money 
a sin, instead of the greatest blessing ; for 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


•27 


I can’t mention any of onr acquaintance 
that’s rich — and I'm sure we don’t know 
too many such peoide— that you haven’t 
something to say against ’em. It’s only 
beggars that you like — pooide with not a 
shilling to bless themselves. Ha ! though 
you’re my luisband, I must say it — you’re 
a man of low notions, Caiidle. I only 
hope none of the dear hoys will take after : 
their father ! 

‘‘And I should like to know what’s the 
objection to (.Toldman V The only thing 
against him is his name ; I must confess 
it, I ilon’t like the name of Lazarus : it’s 
low, and doesn’t sound genteel — not at all 
respectable. But, after he’s gone and done 
what’s pro])er for the child, the boy could 
easily .sli]) Lazarus into Laurence. I’lq 
told the thing’s often done. No, Caudle, 
don’t say that — I’m not a mean woman ; 
certainly not ; quite the reverse. I’ve only 
a parent’s love for my children ; and I 
must say it — I wish every body felt as I 
did. * ' ; 

“I supiio.se, if the truth was known, 
you’d like your tobacco-pipe friend, your j 
liot-companion, Prettyman, to stand for j 
the child ? You'll Imre no objeeUousi? l! 
thought not ! Yes ; I knew what it was ' 
coming to. He’s a beggar, he is ; and a | 
lierson who stays out half the night ; yes, i 
he does ; and it’s no use your denying it — j 
a beggar and a tipjiler, and that’s the man 
you’d make godfather to your own flesh 
and blood ! Upon my word, Caudle, it’s 
enough to make a woman get uji and di’css i 
herself to hear you talk. j 

“Well, I can hardly tell you, if you' 
won’t have Wagstaff', or Pugsby, or Snig- 1 
gins, or Goldman, or somebody that’s re- 1 
spectable, to do Avhat’s jiroiier, the child j 
sha’n’t be christenial at all. As for Pret- j 
tyman, or any such raflf — no, never ! I’m I 
sure there’s a certain set of jicople that 
poverty’s catching from, and that Pretty- 
man’s one of ’em. Now, C’audle, I won’t 
have my dear child lost by any of your 
spittoon acquaintance, I can tell vou. 

3 


“No ; unless I can have my way, the 
child sha’n’t be christened at all. What 
do you say ? It must have a name ? There’s 
no ‘ must’ at all in the case — none. No : 
it shall have no name ; and then see what 
the world will say. I'll call it Number 
Six — yes, that will do as well as anything 
else, iinless I’ve the godfather I like. Num- 
: her Six Caudle ! ha ! ha ! I think that must 
make you ashamed of yourself if anything 
can. Number Six Caudle — a much better 
name than Mr. Prettyman co\;ld give ; yes. 
Number Six ! What do you say ? Ayiy- 
thing but Number Seven? Oh, Caudle, if 
ever” — 

“At this moment,” writes Caudle, “lit- 
tle Number Six began to cry ; and taking 
advantage of the haj^iiy accident, I some- 
how got to sleep.” 


THE SEVENTEENTH LECTURE. 

CAUDIiE IN THE COCKSE OF THE DAY HAS 
VENTX.TKED TO QUESTION THE ECONOMY OP 
“W.VSHING AT HOME.” 

“A PHETTY temper you come to bed in, 
Mr. Caudle, I can see ! Oh, don’t deny it 
— I think I ought to know by this time. 
But it’s always the way ; whenever I get 
up a few things, the house can hardly hold 
you ! Nobody cries out more about clean 
linen than you do — and nobody leads a 
poor woman so miserable a life when she 
tries to make her husband comfortable. 
Yes, Mr. Caudle — comfortable ! You need 
n’t keep chewing the word, as if you could 
n’t swallow it. TUo.s there ever such a irom- 
an ? No, Caudle ; I liope not : I should 
hope no other wife was ever 2>ut uiion as 
I am ! It’s all very well for you. I can’t 
have a little Avash at home like anybody 
else, but you must go about the house 
swearing to yourself, and looking at your 
wife as if she was your bitterest enemy. 


28 


MKS. CAUDLE’S CUKTAIX LECTUKES. 


But I suppose you’d rather we didn’t wash 
at all. Yes ; then you’d he happy ! To 
he sure you Avould — you’d like to have all 
the children in their dirt, like jjotatoes : 
anything, so that it didn't disturb you. I 
wish you’d had a Avife Avho’d never washed 
— she'd have suited you. she Avould. Y’^es : 
a fine lady Avho’d have let your children 
go that you might have scraiied ’em. — 
She’d have heeu much better cai-ed for 
than I am. I only wish I could let all of 
you go without clean linen at all — yes, all 
of you. I wish I coitld ! And if I Avasn’t 
a slave to my family, unlike anybody else, 
I should. 

“No, Mr. Caudle ; the house isn’t tossed 
about in Avater as if it Avas Noah’s Ark ! 
And you ought to be ashamed of yourself 
to talk of Noah’s Ark in that loose man- 
ner. I am sure I don’t know Avhat I’ve 
done to be married to a man of such prin- 
ciples. No : and the whole house doesu'l 
taste of soajA-suds either ; and if it did, 
any other man but yourself Avould be 
above naming it. I sui)i)ose I don’t like 
washing day any more than yoirrself. 
AVhat do you say ? Ves, Ido? Ha ! you’re 
Avrong there, Mr. Caudle. No ; I don’t 
like it because it makes eA'erybody else 
uncomfortable. No ; and I ought not to 
have been born a mermaid, that I might 
ahvays have been in Avater. A mermaid, 
indeed ! What next will you call me ? 
But no man, Mr. Caudle, says such things 
to his wife, as you, HoAvever, as I’ve said 
before, it can’t last long, that’s one com- 
fort. What do you say ? You're glad of 
it ? Y'ou’re a brute, Mr. Caudle ! No, you 
didn't mean Avashing : I knoAV Avhat you 
meant. A pretty speech to a Avoman Avho’s 
been the Avife to you I ha\'e ! You'll re- 
pent it Avhen it’s too late : yes, I Avouldn’t 
have your feelings Avhen I’m gone, Cau- 
dle, — no, not for the Bank of England. 

“And Avhen Ave only Avash once a fort- 
night ! Ha ! I only Avish you had some 
Avives : they’d Avash once a Aveek ! Be- 
sides, if once a fortnight’s too much for 


you, Avhy don't you give me money that 
Ave may liaA e things to go a month ? Is it 
my fault, if Ave're short ? What do you 
say ? My oncen forinigld' kists three days? 
No, it doesn’t ; never ; well. Aery seldom, 
and that’s the same thing. Can I help it, 
if the blacks Avill fly, and the things must 
be rinsed again ? Don't say that : I’m not 
j made hapi)y by the blacks, and they do)il 
; jjrolong my enjoyment : and, more than 
' that, you’re an unfeeling man to say so. 
Y'ou’re enough to make a AVoman Avish her- 
self in her graA^e — you are, Caudle. 

“ And a pre.ty example yoii set to your 
I sons ! Becau.se Ave’d a little Avash to-day, 
i and there Avasn’t a hot dinner — and Avho 
thinks of getting anything hot for Avasher- 
Avomen ? — because you hadn’t everything 
as’ you ahvays have it, you must SAvear at 
the cold mutton — and you don’t know 
j what that mutton cost a pound, I dare say 
you must sAvear at a sweet, Avln.lesome joint 
like a lord. What? You didn't swear? 
Yes ; it’s very Avell for you to say so ; but 
J I know Avhen you’re sAvearing ; and you 
j SAvear when you little think it ; and I say 
: you must go on sAvearing as you did, and 
j seize your hat like a savage, and rush out 
! of the house, and go and take your dinner 
at a tavern ! A pretty Avife people must 
think you have, when they find you din- 
ing at a public-house. A nice home they 
must think yoAA have, Ylr. Caudle ! What ! 
You'll do so every time I wash ? Very Avell, 
Ylr. Caudle — very Avell. We’ll soon see 
Avho’s tired of that, first ; for I’ll Avash a 
stocking a day if that’s all, sooner than 
you should have everything as you like. 
Ha ! that’s so like you ; you’d trami)le 
everybody under foot, if you could — j’ou 
kuoAv you Avo’uld, Caudle, so don’t deny it. 

“Noav, if you begin to shout in that 
manner. I’ll leave the bed. It’s very hard 
that I can’t say a single Avord to you, but 
you must almost raise the jilace. You 
didn't shout? I don’t knoAV what you call 
shouting, then ! I’m sure the people must 
hear vou in the next house. No — it Avon’t 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


29 


<lo to call me soft names, now, Caudle : 
I’m not the fool that I was when I was mar- 
ried — I know better now. A'ou’re to treat 
me in the manner von have, all day ; and 
then at night, the only time and place | 
when I can get a word in, you want to go | 
to sleep. How can you be so mean, Cau- 1 
die ? 

“What! emit I put the inishinff \ 

iii(t y Now, you have asked lhatathous-i 
and times, but it’s no use, Caudle ; so do ; 
not ask it again. I won’t put it out. What : 
do you say ? iUr.s. Pnttpmmi mtys it'n quite 
(IS cheap? Pray, what’s Mrs. Prettymaii to 
me ? I should think, Mr. Caudle, tliat I 
know very well how to take care of my 
family, without Mi-s. Prettyinan’s advice. 
IMrs. Prettyman, indeed ! I only wish 
she’d come here, that I might tell her so ! 
Mrs. Prettyman ! But, perhaps she’d bet- 
ter come and take care of your house for 
you ! Oh, yes ! I’ve no doubt she’d do 
it much better than I do — much. No, Cau- 
dle ! I leon't hold mp tonfiue. I think I 
ought to be mistress of my own washing 
by this time — and after the wife I’ve been 
to you, it’s cruel of you to go on as you do. 

“Don’t tell me about putting the wash- 
ing out. I say it isn’t so clieaiJ — I don’t 
care whether you wash by the dozen or 
not — it isn’t so cheap ; I’ve reduced every- 
thing, and I save at least a shilling a week. 
What do you say ? A trumpeip shilling? 
Ha ! I only hope to goodness you'll not 
come to want, talking of shillings in the 
way you do. Now, don’t begin about 
your comfort : don’t go on aggravating 
me, and asking me if your comfort’s not 
worth a shilling a week ? - That’s nothing 
at all to do with it — nothing : but that’s 
your way — when I talk of one thing, you 
talk of another ; that’s so like you men, 
and you know it. Allow me to tell you, 
Mr. Caudle, that a shilling a week is two j 
pound twelve a year ; and take two pound 
twelve a year for, let us say, thirty years, 
and — well, you needn’t groan, Mr. Caudle, 
— I don’t suppo.se it will be so long ; oh, 


no ! you’ll have somebody else to look af- 
ter your washing long before that — and if 
it wasn’t for my dear children’s sake I 
shouldn’t care how soon. You know my 
mind — and so, good-night, Mr. Caudle.” 

“ Thankful for her silence,” writes Cau- 
dle, “I was fast drt)pping to sleep ; when, 
jogging my elbow, my wife observed, — 
‘ Mind, there’s the cold mutton to-mori’ow : 
nothing hot till that’s gone. Remember, 
too, as it was a short wash to-day, we wash 
again on Wednesday.’ ” 


THE EIGHTEENTH LECTURE. 

CAUDLK, WHILST AVALKING WITH HIS WIFE, 
HAS BEEN BOWED TO BY A YOUNGER AND 
EVEN I'RETTIEK WOllAN THAN MRS. CAUDLE. < 

I “If I’m not to leave the house Avithout 
being insulteil, Mr. Caudle, I had better 
.stay in-doors all my life. 

“What ! Don’t tell me to let you have 
one night’s rest ! I ’vonder at your impu- 
dence 1 It’s mighty tine, I never can go 
out Avith you, and — goodness knows !— it's 
seldom enough, without having my feel- 
ings tom to i)ieces by peoi)le of all sorts. 
A set of bold mimves ! What am I raxing 
about? Oh, you knoAv very Avell — very 
Avell, indeed, Mr. Caudle. .V ju-etty iier- 
i son she must be to nod to a man A\ alking 
Avith his OAvn wife ! Don’t tell me that it's 
Miss Prettyman — Avhat’s Miss Prettyman 
to me ? Oh ! YuiCve met hei' once or twice 
at hex hro(hei-'s house ? Yes, I dare say you 
liaA’e — no doubt of it. I always thought 
there Avas something A'ery tempting about 
that house — and uoav I know it all. Noav, 
it’s no use, Mr. Caudle, your beginning to 
talk loud, and tAvist and toss your arms 
about as if you Avere as innocent as a born 
babe — I’m not to be deceived by any such 
tricks now. No ; tlnwe Avas a time Avhen I 
Avas a fool and belieA'ed anything ; but — I 
thank my stars ! — I’ve got over that. 


ao 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CUKTALN LECTURES. 


“ A bold minx ! You suppose I didn't 
see her laugh, too, when she nodded to 
you ! Oh, yes, I knew what nhe thought 
me ; a poor miserable creature, of course. 
I could see that. No — don’t nay so, Cau- 
dle. •, don't always see more than anybody 
else — but I can’t and won’t be blind, how- 
ever agreeable it might be to yon ; I must 
have the use of my senses. I’m ourc, if a 
woman Avants attention and respect from 
a man, slic’d better be au^dhing than his 
Avife. I’ve always thought so ; and to-day’s 
decided it. 

“No, I’m not ashamed of myself to talk 
so — cex’taiuly not. ^1 good, amiable young 
ereatnre, indeed ! Yes ; I dare say ; A’ery 
amiable, no doubt. Of course, you think 
her so. You suijpose I didn’t see Avhat 
sort of a bonnet she had on ? Oh, a very 
good creature ! And you think I didn’t 
see the smudges of court-plaster about her 
face? You didn't see 'em? Very likely; 
but I did. Very amiable, to be sure ! 
"What do you say ? / made her blush at my 
ill-manners? I should like to have seen 
her blush ! ’Twould have been rather dif- 
ficult, Mr. Caudle, for a blush to come 
through all that iiaint. No — I’m not a 
censorious Avoman, Mr. Caudle ; quite the 
re\'erse. No ; and you may threaten to 
get up, if you like— I will speak. I knoAv 
Avhat color is, aiul I say it was paint. I 
believe, Mr. Caudle, / once had a com- 
plexion ; though, of course, you’ve quite 
forgotten that : I think I once had a color, 
before your conduct destroyed it. Before 
I knew you, people used to call me the 
Lily and Rose ; but — what are you laugh- 
ing at ? I see nothing to laugh at. But, 
us I say, anybody before your oAvn Avife. 

•'And I can’t Avalk out v\ith you but 
you’re boAved to by every Avoman you 
meet ! What do I mean by every woman, 
ivhen it's only Miss Pretlynuai? That’s 
nothing at all to do with it. How do I 
knoAV Avho boAvs to you Avhen I’m not by ? 
EA'crybody, of course. And if they don’t 
look at you, why you look at them. Oh, 


I’m sure you do. You do i even when 
j I’m out Avith you, and of course you do it 
Avhen I’m away. Now, don t tell me, Cau- 
dle — don’t deny it. The fact is, it’s be- 
come such a dreadful habit with you, that 
you don’t knoAv Avhenyou do it, and wlu'ii 
you don’t. But I do. 

' “Miss Pretty man, indeed; WHiat do 
you say ? You won't He still and hear me 
scandalize that excellent young woman ? Oh, 
of course you’ll take her part ! Though, 
to be sure, she may not be so much to 
I blame after all. For hoAV is she to know 
you’re married ? Y'ou’re never seen out- 
of-doors Avith your own Avife — no, never. 
MTiereA^er you go, you go alone. Of coiirse 
people think you’i’e a bachelor. What do 
you say? You well know you're not? Th.at 
has nothing to do with it — I only ask Avhat 
must people think, Ashen I’m never seen 
with you ? Other w'omen go out Avith tin ir 
husbands : but as I’ve often said, I’m not 
like any other Avoman. What are you 
sneering at, Mr. Caudle ? How do I know 
you re sneei'ing? Don’t tell me: I knoAv 
Avell enough, by the movement of the 
pillow. 

“No ; you never take me out — and you 
knoAV it. No ; and it’s not my fault. How 
can you lie there and say that ? Oh, all a 
poor excuse ! That’s Avhat you ahvays say. 
Y'ou’re tired'of asking me, indeed, because* 
I always .start some objection ? Of course 
I can’t go out a figuie. And when you 
ask me to go, you knoAv very Avell that my 
bonnet isn’t as it should be — or that my 
goAvn hasn’t come home — or that I can't 
leaA'e the children, — or that .something 
keeps me in-doors. You know all this, 
Avell enough, before you ask me. And 
that’s your art. And when I do go out 
with you, I’m sure to suffer for it. Y(»s ; 
you needn’t rejicat my Avords. Suffer for 
it. But you suppose I have no feelings : 

; oh, no, nobody has feelings but your.self. 
i Y’es ; I’d forgot : Miss Prettyman, perhajAs, 

I — yes, she may have feelings, of course. 
“And as I’ve said, I dare say a pretty 


MKS. CAUDLE’S CUETAIX LECTURES. 


31 


dupe })eople think me. To be sure a poor 
forlorn creature I must look in everybody’s 
eyes. But I knew you couldn’t be at Mr. 
Prettyman's liou.se night after night till 
eleven o'clock — and a very great deal you 
thought of me sitting up for you — I knew 
you couldn't be there without some cause. 
.\ik 1 now I've found it out ! Oh, I don’t 
mind your swearing, Mr. Caudle ! It’s I, 
if I wasn’t a woman, who ought to swear. 
But it's like you men. Lords of the crea- 
tion, as you call yourselves ! Lords, in- 
deed ! And pretty slaves you make of the 
]»oor creatures who’re tied to you. But 
I'll be sejiarated, Caudle ; I will ; and then 
I'll take care and let all the world know 
how you’ve used me. What do you say ? 
I may say my 'worst? Ha ! don’t you tempt 
any woman in that way — don’t, Caudle ; 
for I wouldn’t answer for what I said. 

“ Miss Prettyman, indeed, and — oh, yes! 
now I see ! Now the whole light breaks 
in upon me ! And now, I know Avhy you 
wished me to ask her ivitli Mr. and Mrs. 
Prettyman to tea ! And I, like a poor 
blind foul, was nearly doing it. But now, 
as 1 say, my eyes are open ! And you’d 
have brought her under my roof — now it’s 
no use your bouncing about in that fash- 
ion — you’d have bi’ought her into the very 
liouse wiiei’e,” — 

“Here,” says Caudle, “I could endure 
it no longer. So I jumped out of bed, 
and went and slept somehow with the 
children. ” 


THE NINETEENTH LECTURE. 

MKS. CAUDLE THINKS “IT WOULD LOOK WIOiL 
TO KEEP THEIR WEDDING-DAY. ” 

“C.\x;dle, love, do you know what ne.\t 
Sunday is? No! yon don't? Well, was 
there eA'er such a strange man ! Can’t 


you gue.ss, darling ? Next Sunday, dear ? 
Think, love, a minute — just think. What! 
atid you don't l-now now? Ha! if I hadn’t 
a better luemoiT than you, I don’t know- 
how we should ever get on. Well, then, 
jiet, — shall I tell you what next Sunday 
is ? Why, then, it’s our wedding-day — 
What are you groaning at, Mr. Caudle ? 
I don’t see anything to groan at. If any- 
body should gi-oair, I’m sure it isn’t you. 
No : I rather think it’s I Avho ought to 
groan ! 

“ Oh, dear ! 'riiat’s fourteen year’s ago. 
You were a very different man, then, Mr. 
Caudle. What do you .say ? — And I teas 
a vei’y different woman ? Not at all — just 
the same. Oh, you needn’t roll your head 
about on the iiiliow in that way : I say, 
just the same. Well, then, if I’m altered, 
w'hose fault is it ? Not mine, I’m sure — 
certainly not. Don’t tell me that I could 
n’t talk at all then — I could talk just as 
well then as I can now ; only then I hadn’t 
the same cause. It’s you who’ve made 
me talk. What did you say ? You're 
very sorry fur it? Caudle, you do nothing 
but insult me. 

“Ha! you were a good-tempered, nice 
creature fourteen years ago, and would 
have done anything for me. Y'^es, yes, if 
a woman would be always cared for, she 
should never marry. There’s quite an end 
of the charm when, she goes to church ! 
We’re all angels while you’re courting us ; 
Vmt once married, how soon you pull our 
I wings ol/ ! No, Mr. Caudle, I’m not talk- 
ing nonsense ; but the truth, is, you like 
to hear nobody talk but yourself. No- 
body ever tcdls mo that _ talk nonsense 
but you. Now it's no use your turning 
and turning about in that way ; it’s not 
a bit of — Avhat do yoi. say ? You'll yet up ? 
No, you won t, Mr. taudle; you’ll not 
.serve me that trick rgain ; for I’ve locked 
the door and hid the key. Therc’e no get- 
ting hold of you all the day-time, — but 
here you can’t leave me. A’ou needn't 
groan again, Mr. Caudle. 


82 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


“ Now, Caudle, dear, do let us talk com- 
fortably. After all, love, there’s a good 
many folks wlio, I dare say, don’t get on 
half so well as Ave’ve done. We’ve both 
our little tempers, i)erhai>s ; but you <tre 
aggravating ; you inirst own that, Caudle. 
Well, never mind ; we won’t talk of it ; I 
won’t scold you now. We’ll talk of next 
Sunday, love. We never have kejjt our 
wedding-day, and I think it would be a 
nice day to have our friends. What do 
you say ? They'd it In/pnci’isy ? No 
hypocrisy at all. I’m sure I try to be com- 
fortable ; and if ever a man was happy, 
you ought to be. No, Caudle, no ; it isn’t 
nonsense to keep wedding-days ; it isn’t a 
deception on the world ; and if it is, how 
many people do it ? I'm sure it’s only a 
proper compliment that a man owes to his 
wife. Look at the AVinkles — don’t they 
give a dinner every year ? Well, I kuoAv, 
and if they do fight a little in the course 
of the twelvemonth, that’s nothing to do 
with it. They keep their wedding-day, 
and their acquaintance have nothing to do 
Avith anything else. 

“As I say, Caudle, it’s only a proper 
compliment that a man OAves to his Avife 
to keej) his Avedding-day. It’s as much as 
to say to the whole Avorld, ‘ There ! if I ■ 
had to marry again, my blessed wife's the | 
only Avoman I’d choose !’ Well ! I see 
nothing to groan at, Mr. Caudle, — no, nor 
to sigh at either ; but I knoAV Avhat you 
mean : I’m sure, what Avould have become 
of you, if you hadn’t married as you liaA-e 
done — Avhy, you’d liaA-e been a lost crea- 
ture ! I knoAV it ; I know your hab- i 
its, Caudle ; and — I don’t like to say it — 
birt you’d lijive been little better than a rag- ' 
amtrffin. Nice scrapes you’d have got into, 
I knoAV, if yoir hadn’t had me for a Avife. 
The trouble I’ve had to keep you respect- 
able — and Avhat’s my thanks ? Ha ! I only 
Avish you’d had some Avomen ! 

“But Ave Avon’t quarrel, Caudle. No; 
you don’t mean anything, I knoAv. We’ll 
have this little dinner, eh ? Just a feAv 


friends ? Noav don’t say you don’t care— 
that isn’t the way to speak to a wife ; and 
esjjecially the Avife I’ve been to you, Cau- 
dle. Well, you agree to the dinner, eh ? 
Now, don’t grinit, Mr. Caudle, but speak 
out. You’ll keep your Avedding-day, dar- 
ling ? Mliat ? 1/ I'll let you go to deep ? 

Ha, that’s unmanly, Caudle ; can’t you 
say, ‘ Yes’ Avithout anything else ? I say 
—can’t you say ‘Yes ?’ — There, bless you! 
I kneAv you would. 

“And noAv, Caudle, Avhat shall we have 
for dinner ? No — Ave Avon’t talk of it to- 
morroAv ; Ave'll talk of it now, and then it 
Avill be off my mind. I should like some- 
thing particular — something out of the 
Avay — just to show that Ave thought the 
day something. I should like — Mr. Cau- 
dle, you’re not asleej) ? TI7^a^ do I want? 
Why, you knoAV I want to settle about the 
dinner. Have what I like? No : as it’s 
your fancy to keep the day, it’s only right 
that I should try to jdease you. We nev- 
er had one, Caudle ; so Avhat do you think 
of a haunch of A’enison ? What do you 
say ? Mutton will do ? Ha ! that sIioavs 
what you think of your wife ; I dare say if 
it Avas Avitli any of your club friends — any 
of your pothouse companions — you’d have 
no objection to A'euison. I say if — what 
do you mutter ? Let it he venison ? VeiT 
Avell. And noAV aboiit the fish ? What do 
you think of a nice turbot ? No, Mr. Cau- 
lUe, brill Avon’t do — it shall be turbot, or 
there sha’n’t be any fish at all. Oh, what 
a mean man you are, Caudle ! Shall it be 
turbot? It shall? Very well. And noAv 
about the souiJ — noAv, Caudle, don’t SAvear 
at the souj) in that manner ; you knoAv 
there must be soup. Well, once in a Avay, 
and just to shoAv our friends how hapj)}' 
Ave’A^e l)cen, Ave'll luiA^e some real turtle. 
■No, yon n'ou't; you'll have nothing hut 
mock ! Then, Mr. Caudle, you may sit at 
i the table by yourself. Mock-turtle on 
j a wedding-day ! Was there ever such an 
1 insult ? What do you say ? Let it he real 
then, for once? Ha, Caudle ! as I say, you 


^[RS. OAUDLE’8 CURTAIN LECTURES. 


33 


were a very different iierson fourteen years 
ago. 

“And, Candle, you’ll look after the ven- 
ison ? There’s a place I know, somewhere 
in the City, where yon get it heantiful ! 
You’ll look to it? Yon iriP / Very well. 

“And now who shall we invite? TT7/o 
I like? Now, yon know, Caudle, that’s 
nonsense ; because I only like whom yoii 
like. I suppose the Prettymans must 
come ? But understand, Caudle, I don’t 
have Miss Prettyman : I’m not going to 
have my peace of mind destroyed under 
iny own roof : if she comes, I don’t ap- 
l)ear at the table. What do you say ? 
Veiy well? Very well be it, then. 

“And now, Caudle, you’ll not forget the 
venison ? In the City, my dear ? You’ll 
not forget the venison ? A haunch, you 
know : a nice haunch. And you’ll not for- 
get the venison ?” — 

“Three times did I fall off to sleep,” 
says Caudle, “and three times did my 
wife nudge me with her elbow, exclaiming, 
‘You'll not forget the venison ?’ At last I 
got into a sound slumber, and dreamt I 
was a pot of currant-j^‘lly.” 


THE TWENTIETH LECTURE. 

“brother” CAUniiE HAS BEEN TO A MA- 
SONIC CHARITABLE DINNER. — MRS. CAUDLE 
H.\S HIDDEN THE “ BROTHER’S ” CHECK- 
BOOK. 

“All I say is this : I only wish I’d been 
born a man. What do you say ? You 
wish I hail? Mr. Caudle, I’ll not lie quiet 
in my own bed to be insulted. Oh, yes, 
you (lid mean to insult me. I know what 
von moan. You mean if I had been born 
a man, you’d never have married me. 
That’s a pretty sentiment, I think ? and 
after the wife I’ve been to you. And now 
I suppose you’ll be going to public din- 


ners every day ! it’s no use your telling 
me you’ve only been to one before ; that’s 
nothing to do with it — nothing at all. Of 
course you’ll be out every night now, I 
knew what it would come to when you 
were made a mason : when you were once 
made a ‘brother,’ as you call yourself, I 
knew where the husband and father Avould 
be ; — I’m sure, Caudle, and though I’m 
your own wife, I grieve to say it — I’m sure 
you haven’t so much heart, that you have 
any to spare for people out of doors. In- 
deed, I should like to see the man who 
has ! No, no, Caudle ; I’m by no means 
a selfish woman — quite the contrary ; I 
love my fellow-creatures as a wife and 
mother of a family, who has only to look 
to her own husband and children, ought 
to love ’em. 

“ A ‘ brother, ’ indeed ! What would you 
say, if I was to go and be made a ‘sister’? 
Why, I know very well — the bouse would 
n’t hold you. 

‘ ‘ T17/ere’.s- ^om’ watch ? How should I 
know where yonr watch is ? You ought 
to know. But to be sure, people ivho go 
to public dinners never know where any- 
thing is when they come home. You’ve 
lost it, no doubt : and ’twill .serve you 
quite right if you have. If it should be 
gone — and nothing more likely — I wonder 
if any of your ‘ brothers ’ will give you 
another ? Catch ’em doing it. 

“ You must find your watch? And you'll 
get up for it ? Nonsense — don’t be foolish 
— lie still. Your watch is on the mantel- 
piece. Ha ! isn’t it a good thing for you, 
you’ve somebody to take care of it ? 

“What do you say? Vm a dear ci'ea- 
ture ? Very dear, indeed, you think me, I 
dare say. But the fact is, you don’t know 
what you’re talking about to-night. I’m 
a fool to open my lips to you — but I can’t 
help it ? 

“ Wlm'e's your vwiich ? Haven’t I told 
you — on the mantel-iiiece ? All right, in- 
deed? Pretty conduct you men call all 
right. There, now, hold your tongue, Mr. 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


r,4 

Caudle, aud go to sleep : I’m sure ’tis the 
hest thing you can do to-night. T^ou’ll he 
able to listen to reason to-morrow morn- 
ing ; now, it’s thrown away upon you. 

“ Where' s your check-hook ? Nevermind 
your check-book. I took care of that. 
W}uil business had I to take it out of your 
pocket? Every business. No, no. If you 
choose to go to i)ublic dinners, why — as 
I’m only j'our wife — I can’t lielp it. But 
I know what fools men are made of there ; 
and if I knew it, you never take your 
check-book again with you. What ! Did 
n’t I see your name down last year for ten 
jjounds ? ‘Job Caudle, Esq., 10/.’ It 
looked very well in the newsi^apers, of 
course : and you thought yourself a some- 
body, when they knocked the tavern ta- 
bles ; but I only wish I’d been there, — 
yes, I only wish I’d been in the gallery. 
If I wouldn’t have told a i^iece of my 
mind, I’m not alive. Ten pounds, indeed ! 
and the world thinks you a very fine Iver- 
son for it. I only wish I could bring the 
world here, an^l show ’em what’s wanted 
at home. I think the world would alter 
their mind then ; yes — a little. 

“ What do you say ? A wife has no 
right to pick her h usband's pocket ? A pretty 
husband you are, to talk in that way. 
Never mind : you can’t prosecute her for 
it — or I’ve no doubt you. would ; none at 
all. Some men would do anything. — 
What ? You've a bit of headache? I hope 
you have — and a good bit, too. T^ou’ve 
been to the right 2 )lace for it. No — I won’t 
hold my tongue. It’s all very Avell for 
you men to go to taverns — aud talk — and 
toast — and hurra — aud — I wonder you’re 
not all ashamed of yourselves to drink the 
Queen’s health with all the honors, I be- 
lieve, you call it — yes, ju-etty honors you 
pay to the sex — I say, I wonder you’re 
not ashamed to drink the blessed creature’s 
health, when you’ve only to think how j'ou 
use your own Avives at home. But the 
hypocrites that the men are — oh ! 

“ ^Vhere's your watch? Haven’t I told 


you ? It’s under your 2 iillow — there, you 
needn’t be feeling for it. I tell you it's 
under your 2^illo"'- It's oil right ? Yes ; 
a great deal you know of what’s right j ust 
now. Ha ! was there eA^er any 2 ^oor soul 
used as I am ? Fm a dear creature? Pah ! 
Mr. Caudle ! I’ve only to say, I’m tired 
of your conduct — quite tired, and don’t 
care hoAv soon there’s an end of it. 

“TT7/j/ did I take your check-book? I’a'o 
told you— to saA’e you from ruin, Mr. Cau- 
dle. You're not going to be ruined? Ha ! 
you don’t knoAv anything Avhen you’re out? 
I know Avhat they do at those 2iublic din- 
ners — charities, they call ’em ; 2)retty char- 
ities ! True Charity, I believe, always 
dines at home. I know Avhat they do ; the 
whole system’s a trick. No ; Fm not a 
stony-hearted ax’ature: and you ought to 
be ashamed to say so of your Avife and the 
mother of your children, — but, you’ll not 
make me cry to-night, I'can tell you — I 
Avas going to say that — oh ! you’re such an 
aggraA’ating man I don’t knoAV Avhat I was 
going to say ! 

“ Thank Heaven? What for? I don’t 
see that there’s anything to thank Heaven 
about ! I Avas going to say, I knoAv the 
trick of 2 Jviblic dinners. They get a lord, 
or a duke, if they can catch him — anything 
to make 2>eo2Jle say they’A'e dined Avith no- 
bility, that’s it — yes, they get one of these 
2 ieo 2 ile, with a star 25ei'ha2is in his coat, to 
take the chair — and to talk all sorts of 
sugar- 2 )lum things about charity — aud to 
make foolish men, Avith Aviue in ’em, feel 
that they’ve no end of money ; and then — 
shutting their eyes to their Avives and fam- 
ilies at home — all the Avhile that their oavu 
faces are red and flushed like 2 iop 2 Jies, and 
they think to-morroAv neA^er will come — 
then they get ’em to put their hand to 2 }a- 
2 jer. Then they make ’em 2 Jull out their 
checks. But I took your book, Mr. Cau- 
dle — you couldn’t do it a second time. 
What are you laughing at ? Nothing? It’s 
no matter : I shall see it in the 2>a25er to- 
morroAV ; for if you gave anything, you 


MKS. CAUDLE’S CUETATN LECTUKES. 


were too proud to hide it. I know your i 
charity. | 

“ Where's your iccUeh? Haven’t I told ! 
you fifty times where it is ? In the pock- j 
et — over your head — of course. Can’t yoi; i 
hear it tick ? No ; you can hear nothing | 
to-night. I 

“And now, Mr. Caudle, I should like ^ 
to know whose hat it is you’ve brought , 
home ? You went out with a beaver worth i 
three-and-twenty shillings — only the sec- j 
ond time you’ve worn it — and you bring 
home a thing that no Jew in his senses 
would give me fivepence for. I couldn’t 
even get a pot of primroses — and you 
know I always turn your old hats into 
roots — not a pot of primroses for it. I’m j 
certain of it now,— I’ve often thought of 
it, — but now I’m sure that some people 
dine out only to change their hats. 

“ Where's your watch? Caudle, you’re 
bringing me to an early grave !” 

We hope that Caudle was penitent for : 
his conduct : indeed, there is, we think, j 
evidence that he was so : for to this lecture 
he has appended no comment. The man 
had not the face to do it. 


THE TWENTY-FIIiST LECTURE. I 

i 

MK. CAUDLE HAS NOT ACTED “LIKE A HUS- j 
band” at the WEDDIN’G-DINNEK. j 

( 

“ Ah me ! It’s no use wishing — none at 
all : but I do wish that yesterday fourteen 
years could come back again. Little did 
I think, Mr. Candle, when you broug^'t j 
me home from «-hurch, your lawful wed- 
ded wife — little, I say, did I think that I 
should keep my wedding-dinner in the 
manner I have done to-day. Fourteen 
years ago ! Yes, I see you now in your 
blue coat with bright buttons, and your 
white watered-.satin waistcoat, and a moss 
rose-bud in youi' button-hole, which you 


3d 

said was like me. What ? you nerer 
talked such nonsetise? Ha ! Mr. Caudle, 
you don’t know what you talked that day 
— but I do. Yes ; and you then sat at the 
table as if your face, as I may say, was but- 
tered with happiness, and — What? No, 
Mr. Caudle, don’t say that ; I have not 
wiped the butter olf — not I. If you, above 
all men, are not happy, you might to be, 
gracious knows ! 

“Yes, I will talk of fourteen years ago. 
Ha ! you sat beside me then, and picked 
out all sorts of nice things for me. You’d 
have given me pearls and diamonds to eat 
if I could have swallowed ’em. Yes, I say, 
you sat beside me, and — What do you talk 
about? You couldn't sit beside me to-day? 
That’s nothing to do with it. But it’s so 
like you. I can’t speak but you fly off to 
something else. Ha ! and when the health 
of the young couple was drunk, Avhat a 
speech you made then ! It was delicious ! 
How you made everybody cry, as if their 
hearts were breaking ; and I recollect it as 
if it was yesterday, hoAV the tears ran doAvn 
dear father’s nose, and how dear mothei- 
nearly went into a fit ! Dear souls ! They 
little thought, with all your fine talk, how 
you’d u.se me ! How hare you used me? 
O Mr. Caudle, how can you ask tliat tpies- 
tiou ? It’s well for you I can’t see you 
Idusli. How have you used me ! 

“ Well, that the same tongue could make 
a siieech like that, and then talk as it did 
to-day! How did you talk? M hy, shame- 
fully ! What did you say about your w ed- 
ded happiness ? Why, nothing. What 
did you say about your w ife ? Worse than 
nothing : just as if she were a bargain you 
w ere sorry for, but a\ ere obliged to make 
the best of. What do you say ? Ai d 
bad's the best? If you say that again, Cau- 
dle, I’ll rise from my bed. You didn't say 
it ? What, then, did you say ? Something 
very like it, I know. Y'es, a iwetty speech 
of thanks for a husband ! And everybody 
could see that you didn’t care a pin for 
me ; and that's w hy you had ’em here : 


36 


MES. CAUDLE’S CUETAIN LECTUEES. 


that’s why you invited ’em, to insult me 
to their faces. What? I made you invite 
'em ? O Candle, Avhat an aggravating man 
yon are ! 

“ I snjipo.se you’ll say next I made yon 
invite Miss Prettyman ? Oh, y'es ; don’t 
tell me that her brother brought her with- 
out your knowing it. What? Didn't I 
hear him say so? Of course I did ; but 
do yoTi sui^pose I’m quite a fool ? Do you 
think I don’t know that that was all set- 
tled between you ? And she must be a 
nice person to come unasked to a woman’s 
house ? Blit I know why she came. Oh, 
yes ; she came to look about her. What 
do I mean? Oh, the meaning’s plain 
enough. She came to see how she should 
like the rooms — how she should like my 
seat at the fire-place ; how she — and if it 
isn’t enough to break a mother’s heart to 
be treated so ! — how she should like my 
dear children. 

“Now, it’s no use your bouncing about 
at — blit of course that’s it ; I can’t mention 
Miss Prettyman, but you fling about as if 
you were in a fit. Of course that shows 
there’s something in it. Otherwise, why 
should you disturb yourself ? Do you 
think I didn’t see her looking at the ci- 
jihers on the si>oons as if she already saw 
mine scratched out and hers there ? No, 
I slia’n’t drive you mad, Mr. Caudle ; and 
if I do it’s your own fault. No other man 
would ti’eat the wife of his bosom in — 
What do you say ? You might as well 
have married a hedgehog? Well, now it’s 
come to something ! But it’s always the 
case ! Whenever you’ve seen that Miss 
Prettyman, I’m sure to be abused. A 
hedgehog ! A jiretty thing for a woman 
to be called by her hiisband ! Now you 
don’t think I’ll lie quietly in bed, and be 
called a hedgehog — do you, IMr. Candle ? 

“Well, I only hope Miss Prettyman 
had a good dinner, that’s all. I had none ! 
Yoir know I had none — how was I to get 
any ? ITou know that the only jiai’t of the 
turkey I care for is the merry-thought. 


And that, of course, went to Miss Pretty- 
man. Oh, I saw you laugh when you i>ut 
it on her plate ! And you don’t supijose, 
j after such an insult as that, I’d taste an- 
I other thing upon the table ? No, I should 
I hope I have more spirit than that. Yes ; 
j and you took wine with her four times. 

I What do you say ? Only twice? Oh, you 
were so lost — fascinated, Mr. Caudle ; yes, 
fascinated — that you didn’t know what 
you did. However, I do think while I’m 
ali^e I might be treated with resjiect at 
my’ own table. I say, while I’m alive ; for 
! I know I sha’n’t last long, and then Miss 
I Prettyman may come and take it all. I’m 
I wasting daily, and no wonder. I never 
^ say anything abont it, but every week my 
I gowns are taken in. 

“I’ve lived to learn something, to be 
be sure ! Miss Prettyman turned ujr her 
j nose at my custards. It isn’t sufficient 
I that you’re always finding fault ymni-self, 
j but you must bring w’omen home to sneer 
at me at my owui table. What do you say ? 
She didn't turn up her nose ? I know she 
did ; not but what it’s needless-Providence 
has turned it up quite enough for her al- 
ready’. And she must give herself airs 
over my crrstards ! Oh, I saw her mincing 
with the spoon as if she was chewing sand. 
What do you say ? She piraised my plum- 
pudding? Who asked her to praise it ? 
Like her impirdence, I think ! 

“Y'es, a pretty day I’ve passed. I shall 
I not forget this rvedding-day’, I think ! And 
! as I say, a pretty speech you made in the 
I way of thanks. No, Caudle, if I was to 
j live a hirndred years — yoir needn’t groan, 
Mr. Caudle, I shall not troulde you half 
; that time— if I was to live a hundred years, 
j I should never forget it. Never ! You 
I didn’t even so much as bring one of yoirr 
children into yorrr speech. And — dear- 
creatures ! — what have they done to offend 
yorr ? No ; I shall not drive you mad. 
It’s you, Mr. Caudle, who’ll drive me mad. 
Evervbody says so. 

“And you suppose I didn’t see liow it 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


was managed, that you and that Miss Pret- 
tyman were always partners at whist ? 
How was it matuKjeil? Why, plain enough. | 
Of course you packed the cards, and co\ild ! 
cut what you liked. You’d settled that 
hetweeu you. Y’es ; and when she took a ' 
trick, instead of leading off a trump — site 
play whist, indeed ! — what did you say to 
her, when she found it was wrong ? Oh — [ 
It Avas impossible that ker heart should j 
mistake ! And this, Mr. Catadle, before ' 
peoide — with your own wife in the room ! 

“And Miss Prettyinan — I won’t hold my j 
tongue. I will talk of Miss Prettyman : i 
Avho’s she, indeed, that I shouldn’t talk of 
her ? I supi)ose she thinks she sings ? i 
What do you say ? She sings like a viei'- 
viaitl? Yes, very — very like a mermaid : 
for she never sings but she exjioses herself. 
She might, I think, have chosen another 
song. ‘7 love somebody,' indeed; as if I 
didn’t know Avho Avas meant by that ‘ some- 
body ;’ and all the room kneAv it, of course; 
and that is what itAvas done for, — nothing 
else. 

“ HoweA'er, Mr. Caudle, as my mind’s j 
made up, I shall say no more about the 
matter to-night, but try to go to sleeiJ.” 

“And to my astonishment and grati- 
tude,” Avntescauam, “she keiffher Avord.” 


THE TWENTY-SECOND LECTURE. 


CAtTDLE COMES HOME IN THE EVENING, AS 
MRS. CAUDLE HAS “ JU.ST STEPPE1> OUT, 
SHOPPING.” — ON HER RETtTRN, AT TEN, 
CAUDLE REMONSTRATES. 

“ i'ou ought to haA’e had a .sla\'e — yes, a 
black slave and not a wife. I’m sure, I' J 
better been born a negro at once — much 
better. What's the matter non' ? Well, I 
like that. Upon my life, Mr. Caudle, 
that’s \e\y cool. I can’t leave the house 
just to bur a yard of ribbon, but you 


a? 

storm enough to carry the roof off. You 
didn't storm ? — yon only spoke? Spoke, in- 
deed ! No, sir : I’ve not such sujierfine 
feelings ^ and I don’t cry out before I’m 
hurt. But you ought to have married a 
Avoman of stone, for you feel for nobody ; 
that is, for nobody in your own hou.se. I 
onl}' Avish you’d shoAv some of your hu- 
manity at home, if ever so little — that’s 
all. 

“What do yoTi say? Where's my feel- 
ings, to go a shopping at night ? AVhen 
would you have me go ? In the broiling 
sun, making my face like a gypsy’s ? I 
don’t see anything to laugh at, Mr. Cau- 
dle ; but you think of anybody’s face be- 
fore your wife’s. Oh, that’s jdain enough; 
and all the world can see it. I dare say, 
noAV, if it was Miss Prettyman’s face — 
noAV, noAV, Mr. Caudle ! AVhat are you 
throwing yourself about for ? I su2ipose 
Miss Prettyman isn’t so Avonderful a jAer- 
son that she isn’t to be named ? I suii- 
Ijose she’s flesh and blood. What ? Yon 
don't know ? Ha ! I don’t knoAV that. 

“ What, Mr. Caudle ? You'll have a sep- 
arate room — you'll not be tormented \n this 
manner ? No, you won’t, sii’ — not Avhile 
I’m alive. A separate room ! And you 
call yourself a religious man, IMr. Caudle. 
I’d advise you to take doAvn the Prayer 
Book, and read over the Mainiage Service. 
A 8Ci)arate room, indeed ! Caudle, you’re 
getting quite a heathen. Asejiarateroom ! 
Well, the servants would talk then ! But 
no : no man — not*the best that e\er ti’od, 
Caudle — should CA-er make me look so 
contemptible. 

“ I shan't go to slee]) ; and you ought to 
knoAv me better than to ask me to hold my 
tongue. Because you come home Avhen 
I’ve just step lied out to do a little shoi)- 
l)ing, you’re Averse than a Fury. I should 
like to knoAV Iioav many hours I sit uji for 
you ? What do you say ? Nobody wants 
me to sit tip ? Ha ! that’s^ike the grati- 
tude of men — just like ’em ! But a iioor 
Avoman can’t leave the house, that — Avhat ? 


38 


MRS. CAUDLR’S CUKTAIX LEC’TURES. 


^Vln/ ain’t I go nl reasonable hours? Reas- 
onable ! Wliiit do yon call eight o’clock ? 
If I Avent out at eleven and twelve, as yon 
come home, then yon might tlilk ; but 
seven or eight o’clock — why it’s the cool 
of the evening ; the nicest time to enjcn' a 
walk, and, as I say, do a little bit of shop- 
ping. Oh, yes, Mr. Candle, I do think of 
tlie people that are kept in the shops just 
as mncli as yon ; l»nt that’s nothing at all 
to do with it. I know what you’d have. 
You’d have all those young men let away 
early from the counter to imi)rove Avhat 
you please to call their minds. Pretty 
notions you pick up among a set of free- 
thinkers, and I don’t knoAV w hat ! AVhen 
I was a girl, peoi)le never talked of minds 
— intellect, I believe you call it. Non- 
sense ! a new-fangled thing, ju.st come up; 
anil the sooner it goes out, the better. 

“Don’t tell me! What are shops for, 
if they’ve not to be open late and early 
too ? And Avhat are shoi)men, if they’re 
not to attend upon their customers ? Peo- 
ple i:)ay for Avhat they have, I suppose ; and 
ar'n’t to be told Avhen they shall come and 
and lay their money out, and when they 
shan’t ? Thank goodness I if one shojA 
shuts, another kee2)s open ; and I always 
think it a duty I ow'e to myself to go to 
the shoi) that’s ojjen last : it’s the only 
way to jiunish the 8ho2-)keeiJers that are 
idle, and give themselves airs about early 
hours. 

“Besides, there’s some things I like to 
buy best at candlelight. Oh, don’t talk 
to me alnuit humanity ! Humanity, in- 
deed, for a 2>ack of tall, stra 232 iiiig young 
fellows — some of ’em big enough to be 
shown for giants ! And what have they 
to do ? Why, nothing, but to stand be- 
hind a counter, and talk civility. Yes, I 
know your notions ; you say that eveiy- 
body works too nuich : I know' that. Y'ou’d 
have all the world do nothing half its time 
but twiddle if?! thumbs, or walk in the 
2)arks, or go to 2 ^icture-galleries, and mu- 
seums, and such nonsense. A^ery fine, in- 


deed ; but, thank goodness ! the Avorld 
isn’t come to that 2 ’ass yet. 

I “AVhat do you say I am, Mr. Caudle ? 
A foolish u'oman, that can' t look beyond mg 
own fireside? Oh, yes, I can : quite as far 
] as you, and a great deal farther. But I 
can’t go out sho2i2>b)g a little with my 
doiar friend, Airs. Wittles — Avhat do you 
1 laugh at ? Oh, don’t they ? Don’t Avom- 
! en knoAv Avhat friendsliqA is ? U2>on my 
life you’ve a nice opinion of us ! Oh, yes, 
j Ave can — Ave can look outside of our own 
i fender's. Air. Caudle. And if Ave can’t, it’s 

i all the better for our families. A blessed 

1 

I thing it Avould be for their avia'Cs an I chil 
I dren if men couldn’t, either. Y’ou Avould 
I n’t luiA’e lent that five 2>oirnds — and I dare 
I say a good many other five 2rounds that I 
j knoAV nothing of — if you — a lord of the 
; creation ! — had half the sense that Avomen 
' have. Y’'ou seldom catch us, I believe, 
j lending five 2)ounds. I should think not. 

1 “No: Ave Avou’t talk of it to-morroAv 
morning. Y'ou're not going to Avound my 
i feelings Avhen I come home, and think I’m 
j to say nothing about it. You have called 
; me an inhuman 2>m'son ; you liaA'e said I 
have no thought, no feeling for the health 
I and comfort of my felloAv-crcatures ; I do 
i not knoAv Avhat you haA'en’t called me ; and 
! only for buying a — but I sha’n’t tell you 
j Avhat ; no, I won’t satisfy you there — but 
j you’ve abu.sed me in this manner, and only 
for sho2)2ring up to ten o’clock. Y'ou’ve a 
; great deal of fine com2rassion, you have ! 
I’m sure the young man that sei'Aed me 
! could have knocked doAvn an ox ; yes, 
strong enough to lift a house : but you can 
2>ity him — oh, yes, you can be all kindness 
for him, and for the Avorld, as you call it. 
O Caudle*, Avhat a hy2)oc]'ite you are ! I 
only Avisli the Avorld kneAv hoAv you treated 
your 2 >oor Avife ! 

“What do you say ? Far the lore of 
mercy let you sleep ? Alercy, indeed ! I 
only wish you could shoAv a little of it to 
other peo2)le. Oh, yes, I do knoAv Avhat 
mercy means; Imt that’s no reason I .should 


Mils. ( AlTDl.E'S CURTAIN LECTURES 


39 


go sliop2)iiig a bit earlior than I do — and 1 1 
won’t — No ; you’ve i)reac*hed this over to • 
me again and again ; you’ve made me go ! 
to meetings to hear all about it : but that’s j 
no reason women shouldn't shoji just as ; 
late as they choose. It’s all very fine, as ' 
I say, for you men to talk to us at meet - 1 
ings, where, of course, we smile and all j 
that— and sometimes shake our white-pocV- j 
et handkerehief.s — and where you say we ! 
have the i)Ower of early horn's in our own 
hands. To be sure we have ; and we mean ' 
to keejj it. That is, I do. You’ll never 
catch me shojuung till the very last thing ; 
and — as a matter of i)rincii)le — I'll always 
go to the shoi? kee2)s o2)en latest. It 
does the young men good to kee 2 > ’em close 
to business. Im2U'ove their minds, in- 
deed ! Let ’em out at seven, and they’d 
im2n'ove nothing but their billiards. Be- 
."^ides, if they want to im2>rove themselves, j 
can’t they get U 2 >, this tine weather, at 
three ? MTiere there’s a will, there’s a 
way, Mr. Caudle.” 

“ I thought,” writes Mr. Caudle, “ that { 
she had gone to slee2>. In this hope, I j 
was dozing off when she jogged me, and 
tints declared herself ; — ‘You want night- 1 
caps ; but see if I budge to buy ’em till 
nine at night.’ ” 


'I’HE TWENTY-THIRD LECTURE. 


.Mus. rAtrcnE “ wi.shes to know if they’re 

OOING TO THE SEA-SIDE, OR NOT, THIS j 

sr'MMFJi — th.vt's all.” i 

i 

“Hot? yes, it is hot. I’m sure one! 
might as well be in an over as in town this 
hot weather. You seem to forget its July, 
I\Ir. Caudle. I’ve been waiting quietly — 
have never S2}oken ; yet, not a word have 
you said of the sea-side yet. Not that I care 
for it myself — oh, no ; my health isn’t of 


the slightest consequence. And, indeed, 
I was going to say — but I won’t, that the 
sooner, 2>erha2is, I’m out of this v.'orld, the 
better. Oh, yes ; I dare say you think so 
— of course you do, else you wouldn’t lie 
there saying nothing. You’re enough to 
aggravate a saint. Caudle ; but you shan’t 
vex me. No ; I’ve made U2i my mind, and 
never intend to let you vex me again. — 
Why should I woi-ry myself ? 

“ But all I want to ask you is this : do 
you intend to go to the sea-.side this sum- 
mer? Yes ? i/nn'll f/oto (rrnvesend ? Then 
you’ll go alone, tlnit’s all I know. Graves- 
end ! You might as well enqjty a salt- 
cellar in the New River, and call that the 
sea-side. What? It's htox/j/ for i>i(siiieits‘} 
There you are again ! I can never S2ieak 
of taking a little enjoyment, but you fling 
business in my teeth. I’m sure you never 
let business stand in the way of yo’ir own 
2)leasure, Mr. ('audle— not you. It would 
1)6 all the better tor your family if you did. 

“You know that Matilda wants sea- 
bathing ; you know it, or ought to know 
it, by the looks of the child ; and yet— I 
know you, Caudle — you'd have let the 
summer 2 )a«« over, and never said a ivord 
about the matter. What do you say ? 
Mavfjote's so expensive? Not at all. I’m 
sure it will be chea2)er for us in the end ; 
for if we don't go, we shall all be ill — ev- 
ery one of us — in the winter. Not that 
my health is of any consequence : I know 
that well enough. It never was yet. You 
know Margate’s the only 2»lace I can eat a 
breakfast at, and yet you talk of Graves- 
end ! But what’s my eating to you ? You 
wouldn’t care if I never eat at all. You 
never watch my a2)2ietite like any other 
husband, otherwise you’d have seen what 
it’s come to. 

“What do you say ? Hoir much iriU it 
cost? There you are, Mr. Caudle, with 
your meanness again. AVhei^'ou want to 
go yourself to Blackwall or to Greenwich, 
you never ask how much it will cost ? 
AYhat ? You never ^o to Black wall? Ha ! 


Mils. CAUDLE’S CUKTAIN LECTURES. 


K) 

I don’t know that ; and if you don’t, that’s 
nothing at all to do with it. Aes, you can 
give a guinea a plate for whitebait for 
yourself. No, sir ; I'm not a foolish wom- 
an : and I know very well what I’m talk- 
ing about — nobody better. A guinea for 
whitebait for yourself, when you grudge 
a pint of shrimps for j'our poor family. 
Eh ? You don't (juiahje 'em uuytlmuj? A^es, 
it’s very well for you to lie there and say 
so. Whdt iril! it cost? It’s no matter Avhat 
it will cost, for we won’t go at all now. 
No ; we’ll stay at home. We shall all be 
ill in the winter— -every one of ris, all but 
you ; and nothing ever makes you ill. I’ve 
no doubt Ave shall be laid up, and there’ll 
be a doctor’s bill as long as a railroad ; 
but never mind that. It’s better — much 
better — to jjay for nasty physic than for 
fresh air and wholesome salt w ater. Do 
not call me ‘ woman,’ and a.sk ‘ wdiat it Avill 
cost.’ I tell you, if you were to lay the 
money down before me on that quilt, I 
wouldn’t go now — certainly not. It’s bet- 
ter w^e should all be sick ; yes, then you’ll 
1)6 pleased. 

“ That’s right, Mr. Caudle ; go to sleejA. 
It’s like your unfeeling self ! I’m talking 
of our all being laid up ; and you, like any 
stone, turn round and begin to go to sleep. 
Well, I thi.ik that’s a pretty insult ! How 
can you sleep with such a splinter in your 
flesh? I suppose you mean to call me 
the sjjliuter ? — and after the wife I’ve been 
to you ! But no, Mr. Caudle, you may 
call me what you please ; you’ll not make 
me cry mow. No, no : I don’t throw' away 
my tears upon any such person now. — 
What 'i Don't? Ha ! that’s yoxir ingrati- 
tude ! But none of you men deserve that 
any Avoman should love you. My iJoor 
heart ! 

“ Everybody else can go out of toAvn 
exce 2 )t us. Ha ! If I’d only married Sim- 
mons — What J, 117/// didn't I? Yes, that’s 
all the thanks I get. Who's Simmons? Oh, 
you knoAv vci'A' Avell Avho Simmons is. 
He’d have treated me a little better, I 


think. He wos a gentleman. Von om't 
tell? May be not : but I can. With such 
Aveatlier as this, to stay melting in Lon- 
don ; and Avhen the painters are coming 
in ! You won't have the paintei'S in ? But 
you must ; and if they once come in, I’m 
determined that none of us shall stir then. 
Painting in July, Avith a family in the 
house ! We shall all of us be i)oisoned, of 
coxirse ; but Avhat do you care for that ? 

“ Why can't I tell you what U will cost? 
Hoav can I or any woman tell exactly Avhat 
it Avill cost ? Of course lodgings — and at 
Margate, too — are a little dearer than liv- 
ing at your OAvn house, Pooh ! You know 
that? Well, if you did, Mr. Caudle, I sui)- 
2)ose there’s no treason in my naming it. 
Still, if you take ’em for tAvo months, 
they’re cheajAer than for one. No, Mr. 
Caudle, I shall not be quite tired of it in 
one month. No : and it isn’t true that I 
no sooner get out than I Avant to get home 
again. To be sure I was tired of Margate 
j three years ago, Avhen you used to leave 
! me to Avalk about the beach by myself, to 

I be stared at through all sorts of telescoijes. 
i But you don't do that again, Mr. Caudle, 

I I can tell you. 

“ 117//// will I do at Margate? Why, is 
I n't there bathing, and picking ui) shells ; 

1 and ar’n’t there the packets, Avith the don- 
I keys ; and the last new novel — AvhateA-er it 
! is, to read ? — for the only i)lace Avhere 1 
really relish a book is at the sea-side. No; 
it isn’t that I like salt Avith my reading, 
Mr. Caudle ! I sui/jiose you call that a 
joke ? You might keep your jokes for the 
daytime, I think. But, as I Avas saying — 
only you ahvays Avill interrnjit me — the 
1 ocean ahvays seems to me to oj/en the 
i mind. I see nothing to laugh at ; but you 
I always laugh Avhen I say anything. Some- 
times at the sea-side — siiecially Avhen the 
I tide’s doAvn — I feel so haiqiy ; quite as if I 
I could cry. 

“Wh'.m shall I get the things ready? 
For next Sunday ? 117///^ will it cost? Oh, 

there— don’t talk of it. No : Ave Avon’t go. 


MKS. CAUDLE’S CUKTAIN LECTURES. 


41 


I sbiill sciinl for the painters to-moiTow. 
What ? 1 can (/o and take the children, and 

you'll ska/ ? Xo, sir : you go with me, or 
I don’t stir. I’m not going to be turned 
loose like a hen with her chickens, and 
nobody to protect me. So we’ll go on 
Monday ? Eh ? 

“ What iciU it cost? What a man you 
are ! Why, Caudle I’ve been reckoning 
that, with buti* slippers and all, we can’t 
well do it under seventy pounds. No ; I 
Avon’t take away the sliiJjjers, and say fifty : 
it’s seventy pounds and no less. Of course, 
what’s over will be so much saved. Cau- 
dle, Avhat a man you are ! Well, shall we 
go on Monday ? What do you say ? — 
Vou'U see ? There’s a dear. Then, Mon- 
aaj.”- 

“Any thing for a chance of peace,” 
writes Caudle. “ I consented to the trip, 
for I thought I might sleep better in a 
change of bed.” 


THE TWENTY-FOURTH LECTURE. 

MliS. CArCLE DWEIXiS ON CAUDEE’s “ CEtTEL 
neglect” of HEB on BO.UID THE “BED 
ItOVEB.”— MBS. CAFDLE SO “ ILL WITH THE 
SEA,” TH.VT THEY PUT UP AT THE DOLPHIN, 
HEBNE-15AY. 

“Caudle, have you looked under the 
bed? What for? l>iess the man ! Why, 
for thieves, to be sure. Do you suppose 
I'd sleep in a strange bed, Avithout ? Don’t 
tell me it’s nonsense ! I shouldn’t sleep a 
Avink all night. Not that you’d care for 
that : not that you’d — hush ! I’m sure I 
hear somebody. No ; it’s not a bit like a 
mouse. Yes ; that’s like you — laugh. It 
Avould be no laughing matter if — lim sure 
there is somebody ! — I’m sure there is ! 

“Yes, Mr. Caudle ; now I am .satis- 
fied. Any other man Avould have got u}) 
and looked himself ; especially after my 


sufferings on board that nasty ship. But 
catch you stirring ! Oh, no ! A’ou’d let 
me lie here and be robbed and killed, for 
what you’d care. Vriiy, you’re not going 
to sleejj ! What do you say ? It's the strange 
air — and you're always sleepy in a strange 
air? That shoAvs the feelings you liaA^e, 
after Avhat I’ve gone through. And yawn- 
ing, too, in that brutal manner ! Caudle, 
you’ve no more heart than that Avooded 
figure in a Avhite petticoat at the front of 
the shiiJ. 

“No ; _ couldn't leave my temper at home. 
I dare eay ! Because for once in your life 
you’ve brought me out — yes, I say once, 
or two or th’ ee times, it isn’t more ; be- 
cause, as I say, you once bring me out, 
I’m to be a slave and say nothing. Pleas- 
ure, indeed ! A great deal of pleasure I’m 
to liaA’^e, if I’m to hold my tongue. A nice 
Avay that of pleasing a Avoman. 

“ Dear me ! iWhe bed doesn’t spin round 
and dance about ! I’ve got all that filthy 
ship in my head ! No ; I sha’n’t be Avell 
in the morning. But nothing ever ails 
anybody but yourself. You needn’t groan 
in that Avay, Mr. Caudle, disturbing the 
people, perhaps, in the next room. It’s a 
mercy I’m alive, I’m sure. If once I Avould 
n’t have given all the a\ orld for anybody 
to have thrown me overboard ! What are 
you smacking your lijis at, Mr. Caudle ? 
But I know Avhat you mean — of course, 
you’d never have stirred to sto]! ’em ; not 
you. And then you might have knoAvn 
tliat the Avind Avould have blown to-day ; 
but that's Avhy you caim^. 

“ Whatever I should have done if it had 
n’t been for that good soul — that blessed 
Captain Lai ge ! I’m sure all the Avomen 
Avho go to jilargate ought to pray for him; 
so attentive in sea-sickness, and so much 
of a gentleman ! Hoav I should have got 
down-stairs Avithout him Avhen I first be- 
gan to turn, I don’t knoAv. Don’t tell me 
I never comiilained to you — you might 
liave seen I was ill. And Avhen CA^erybody 
Avas looking like a bad Avax-caudle, you 


could walk about, and make what you call 
jokes upon the little buoy that was never 
sick at the Nore, and such unfeeling trash. 

“Yes, Caudle : we've now Ix'en married 
many years, l)ut if wo wei’e to live together 
for a thousand years to come — what are 
yon clasi)ing your hands at ? — a thousand 
years to come, I say, I shall never forget 
your conduct this day. Yon could go to 
the other end of the shiji and smoke a ci- 
gar, Avhen you knew I should be ill — oh, 
you knew it ; for I always am. The brutal 
way, too, in which you took that cold 
brandy-and-water — you thought I didn't 
see you ; but ill as I was, hai-dly able to 
hold my head u]), I was watching yon all 
the time. Three glasses of cold brandy- 
and-water ; and you sijiped ’em, and drank 
the health of the people you didn’t care a 
pin about ; Avhilst the health of your own 
lawful wife was nothing. Three glasses 
of brandy-and-water, and / left — as I may 
.say — alone! You didn’t hear ’em, but 
everybody was crying shame of you. 

“Wliat do you say ? good deal ing 
own fanlt? I took too much dinnei’l Well, 
you are a man I If I took more than the 
breast and leg of that young goose — a 
thing, I may say, just out of the shell — 
with the slightest bit of stuffing, I’m a 
wicked woman. AYhat doyou say ? 

.ste;- salad? La! — how^ can you speak of 
it ? month-old baby would have eaten 
more. What ? Goosebem'g pie? Well, if 
you’ll name that, you’ll name anything. 
Ate too much, indeed ! Do you think I ' 
was going to pay for a dinner, and eat 
Tiothing ? No, Mr. Caudle ; it’s a good 
tiling for you that I know a little more of 
the value of money than that. 

“ But, of course, you were better engag- 
ed than in attending to me. Mr. Pretty- 
man came on boai-d at Gravesend. A plan- 
ned thing, of course. You think I didn’t 
see him give you a letter. It wasn't a letter; 
it was a newspaper? I dare say; ill as 1 1 
was, I had my eyes. It w'as the smallest | 
new sjraiier 1 ever saw', that’s all. But of i 


I course, a letter from Miss Prettyman— ■ 
I Now, Caudle, if you begin to cry out in 
j that manner. I’ll get up. Do you forget 
' that you 're not at your own house ? making 
t’lat noi.se ! Disturbing everybody ! Why, 

! we shall have the landlord up ! And j’ou 
I could smoke and drink ‘ forward’ as you 
I called it. What ? You couldn’t smoke a}nf- 
I where else? That’s nothing to do with it. 

I Yes ; forward. What a pity tliat Miss 
i Prettyman wasn't with you. I’m sure 
; nothing could be too forward for her. 
i No, I won’t hold my tongue ; and I ought 
J not to be ashamed of my.self. It isn’t 
1 treason, is it, to speak of Miss Prettyman? 

: After all I’ve suft. rf'd to-day, and I’m not 
i to open my li}>s ! Y'es ; I’m to be brought 
; away from my own home, dragged dow n 
here to the sea-side, and made ill ; and I’m 
not to speak. I should like to know what 
next. 

“It’s a mercy that some of the dear 
children were not drow ned ; not that their 
I father would have cared, so long as he 
! could have had his brandy and cigars. 
Peter was as near through one of the holes 
as — Ifs no such thing? It’s very well for 
I you to say so, but you know what an in- 
quisitive boy he is, and how he likes to 
wander among steam-engines. No, I won’t 
let you go to sleep. What a man you are ! 
What ? r ve said that before? That's no 
matter ; I'll say it again. Go to sleeji, in- 
deed ! as if one could never have a little 
rational conversation. No, I sha'n’t be 
too late for the Mai-gate boat in the morn- 
ing ; I can wake up at what hour I like, 
and you ought to know that by this time. 

“A miserable creature they must have 
thought me in the ladies’ cabin, Avith no- 
body coming down to see how' I Avas. ] "on 
came a dozen times? No, Caudle, that 
Avon’t do. I knoAA' better, Y^ou ncAer 
came at all. Oh, no ! cigars and brandy 
took all your attention. And Avhen I was 
so ill, that I didn’t know' a single thins: 
that Avas going on about me, and you nev- 
er came. Every other Avo!nan’s husband 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


43 


Ava.s tliere — lia ! twenty times. And what 
must have been my feelings to hear ’em 
taj^i^ing at the door, and making all sorts 
of kind inqiiiries — something like hus- 
bands ! — and I was left to be ill alone ? 
Yes ; and you want to get me into au ar- 
gument. You want to know, if I was so 
ill that I knew nothing, how could I know 
that you didn’t come to the cabin -door ? 
That’s jivst like ycur aggravating way ; 
but I’m not to be caught in tliat man- 
ner, Caiidle. No.” 

“It is very i^ossible,” writes Caudle, 
“that she talked two hours more: but, 
happily, the wind got suddenly up— the 
waves bellowed — and, soothed by the sweet 
lullaby (to say nothing of the Dolphin’s 
brandy-and-water), I somehow sank to re- 
pose.” 


THE T’WENTY-FIFTH LECTURE. 

MBS. CAUDLE, WE.\EIED OF MABGATE, HAS 
“a GKEAT DESniE TO SEE FRANCE.” 

“ Ar’n’t you tired, Caudle ? 

“ Xo ? Well, was there ever such a man? 
But nothing ever tires you. Of course, it’s 
all very well for you : yes, you can read 
your newspa2jer and — What ? So can I? 
And I wonder what would become of the 
children if I did ? No ; it’s enough for tlieir 
father to lose his precious time, talking 
about iiolitics, ajid bishoi>s, and lords, and 
a 2^«Tck of 2)eoide who wouldn’t care a 2^111 
if we hadn’t a roof to cover us — it’s well 
enoxigh for — no, Caudle, no ; I’m not go- 
ing to worry you ; I never worried you yet, 
and it isn’t likely I should begin now. 
But that’s always the Avay with you — al- 
ways. I’m sure we should be the ha2)25i- 
est cou2>le alive, only you do so like to 
have all the talk to yourself. We’re out 
ui^on 2^1easure, and therefore let’s be com- 
fortable. Still, I must say it : when you 
4 


like, you’i'e an aggravating man, Caudle, 
and you know it. 

“ What have you done now ? There, now; 
we won’t talk of it. No ; let’s go to sleep: 
otherwise, we shall quarrel — I know we 
shall. AVhat have you done now, indeed ! 
That I can’t leave my home for a few days, 
but I must be insulted ! Everybody U23on 
the 2)ier saw it. Saw what? How can you 
lie there in the bed and ask me ? Saw 
what, indeed ! Of course, it was a 2>lanned 
thing ! — regularly settled before you left 
Loudon. Oh, yes ; I like your innocence, 
Mr. Caudle ; not knowing what I’m talk- 
ing about. It’s a heart-breaking thing for 
a woman to .say of her own husband ; but 
you’ve been a wicked man to me. Yes ; 
and all your tossing and tumbling about 
in the bed won’t make it any better. 

“Oh, it’s easy enough to call a Avoman 
‘a dear soul.’ I mu.st be vei’y dear, in- 
deed, to you, when you bring down Miss 
Fi’ettyman to — there now ; you needn’t 
.shout like a wild savage. Do you know 
that you’re not in your own hou.se ^ — 
that we’re in lodgings ? What do you 
.su2>pose the 25G02de Avill think of us ? Y'^ou 
needn’t call out in that manner, for they 
can hear every word that’s said. What 
do yo\i say ? Why don't 1 hold my tongue 
then? To be sure ; anything for an excuse 
with you. Anytinng to sto2) my mouth. 
Miss Prettyman’s to follow you here, and 
I’m to say nothing. I know she has fol- 
lowed you ; and if you were to go before 
a magistrate, and take a shilling oath to 
the contrary, I Avouldn’t believe you. No, 
Caudle ; I wouldn’t. 

“ Very well then ? Ha ! Avhat a heart you 
must have to say ‘ very Avell ;’ and after the 
wife I’ve been to you. I’m to be brought 
from my home — dragged down here to the 
sea-side— to be laughed at before the world 
— don’t tell me ! Do you think I didn’t 
see hoAV she looked at you — how she 2Miek- 
ered 112^ her farthing mouth — and— Avhat ? 
Why did I kiss her, then ? What’s that to 
do Avith it ? A2)2^earances are one thing,. 


44 


^ms. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


Mr. Caudle ; and feelings are another. As 
if women can’t kiss one another without 
meaning anything by it ! And you — I 
could see you — looked as cold and formal 
at her as — well, Caudle ! I wouldn’t be the 
hyyocrite you are for the world ! 

“There, now ; I’ve heard all that story. 
I dare say’, she did come down to join her 
brother. How very lucky, though, that 
you should be here ! Ha ! ha ! how very 
lucky that — ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! and with the 
cough I’ve got upon me — oh, you’ve a 
heart like a sea-side flint ! .Yes, that’s 
right. That’s just like your humanity. 
I can’t catch a cold, but it must be my 
own fault — it must be my thin shoes. I 
dare say you’d like to see me in plowman’s 
boots ; ’twould be no matter to you how I 
disfigured myself. Miss Prettyman’s foot, 
now, would be another thing — no doubt. 

“I thought when you would make me 
leave home — I thought we were coming 
here on pleasure ; but it’s always the way 
you embitter my life. The sooner that I’m 
out of the world, the better. Wliat do you 
say ? Nothing ? But I know what you 
mean, better than if you talked an hour. 
J only hope you’ll get a better wife, that’s 
all, Mr. Caudle. What? You’d not try? 
Wouldn’t you ? But I know you. In six 
months you’d fill up my place ; yes, and 
dreadfully my dear children would suffer 
for it. 

“Caudle, if you roar in that way, the peo- 
ple will give rrs warning to-morrow. Can’t 
I be quiet then ! Y'es — that’s like youi ait- 
fulness ; anything to make me hold my 
tongue. But we won’t quarrel. I’m sure 
if it depended upon me, we might be as 
happy as doves. I mean it — and you need 
n’t groan when I say it. Good-night, Cau- 
dle. What do you say ? Bless me! Well, 
you are a dear soiil, Caudle ; and if it was 
n’t for that Miss Prettyman — no, I’m net 
torturing you. I know very well what 
I’m doing, and I wouldn’t torture you for 
the world ; but you don’t know what the 
feelings of a wife at’e, Caudle ; you don’t. 


“ Caudle — I say, Caudle. Just a woifl 
dear. Well? Now, why should you snaj^ 
me U2) in that way. You want to go to 
sleep? So do I : but that’s no reason you 
should speak to me in that manner. Y'ou 
know, dear, you once promised to take me 
to France. You don't recollect it? Yes — 
that’s like you ; you don’t recollect many 
things 3’ou’ve jjromised me ; but I do. 
There’s a boat goes on Wednesday to Bou- 
logne, and comes back the day afterwards. 
What of it ? For that time we could leave 
the children with the girls, and go nicely. 
Nonsense? Of course ; if I want anything 
it’s always nonsense. Other men can take 
their wives half over the world ; but you 
think it quite enough to bring me down 
here to this hole of a j^lace, where I know 
every jjebble on the beach like an old ac- 
qi^aintance — where there’s nothing to be 
seen but the same machines — the same 
jetty — the some donkeys — the same every 
thing. But then I’d forgot ; jMargate has 
an attraction for you — Miss Prettyman’s 
here. No ; I’m not eensorious, and I would 
n’t backbite an angel ; but the way in 
which that young woman walks the sands 
at all hours — there ! there ! — I’ve done : I 
can’t ojjen my lijis about that creature but 
you always storm. 

“ITou knovv that I always wanted to go 
to France ; and you bring me down here 
only on purijose that I should see the 
cliffs — just to tantalize me, and for noth- 
ing else. If I’d remained at home — and 
it Avas against my Avill I ever came here — I 
should never have thought of France ; but, 
— to have it staring in one’s face all day, 
and not be able to go ! it’s worse than cru- 
el, Mr. Caudle — it’s brutal. Other lAeoifie 
can take their wives to Paris ; but you al- 
ways keep me moped up at home. And 
Avhat for ? Why, that I may know noth- 
ing — yes ; just on purpose to make me 
look little and for nothing else. 

Heaven bless the woman? Ha ! you’ve 
good reason to say that, Caudle ; for I’m 
sure she’s little blessed by you. She’s been 


MKS. CAUDLE’S CUliTAIN LECTUKES. 


45 


l\ei)t a i^risoner all lier life — has never gone 
anywhere — oh yes ! that’s yonr old excuse, 
— talking of the children. I want to go to 
France, and I should like to know what 
the children have to do with it ? They’re 
not babies now — are they ? But you’ve 
always thrown the children in my face. 
If M iss Prettyman — there now ; do you 
hear what you’ve done — .shouting in that 
manner ? The other lodgers aro knocking 
overhead : who do you think will have the 
face to look at ’em to-morrow morning ? 
I shan’t — breaking iieoj^le's rest in that 
way ! 

“Well, Caiidle — I 'declare it’s getting 
daylight, and Avhat an obstinate man you 
are ! — tell me, shall I go to France ?” 

“I forget,” says Caiulle, “my jirecise 
answer ; but I think 1 gave her a very 
wide ijermission to go somewhere, where- 
U 2 )cn, though not without remonstrance 
as to the place— she went to sleep.” 


THE TWENTY-SIXTH LECTURE. 
eiKS. caudle’s fibst night in fkance. — 

“SHAMEFUL INDIFFERENCE” OF CAUDLE 

AT THE BOULOGNE CUSTOM-HOUSE. 

“I SUFFOSE, Mr. Caudle, you call your- 
self a man ? I’m sure, such men should 
never have wives. If I could have thought 
it jiovssible you’d have behaved as you have 
done — and I might, if I hadn’t been a for- 
giving creature, for you’ve never been like 
anybody else — if I could only have thought 
it, you’d never have dragged me to foreign 
jiarts. Never ! Well, I did say to my.self, 
if he goes to France, iierhaps he may catch 
a little iioliteness — but no : you began as 
Caudle,. and as Caudle you’ll end. I’m to 
be neglected through life, now. Oh yes ! 
I’ve quite given uji all thoughts of any- 
thing but wretchedness — I’ve made up my 
mind to misery, now. You're (jU(d of it ? 


AYeU, you must have a heart to say that. 
I declare to you, Caudle, as true as I’m an 
ill-used woman, if it wasn’t for the dear 
children far away in blessed England — if 
it wasn’t for them, I’d never go back with 
you. No ; I’d leave you in this veiy idace. 
Yes ; I’d go into a convent ; for a lady on 
board told me there was jdenty of ’em here. 
I’d go and be a nun for the rest cf my 
days, and — I see nothing to laugh at, Mr. 
Caudle ; that you should l)e shaking the 
bed-tilings uji and down in that way. — 
But you always laugh at iieople’s feelings; 
I wish you’d only some yourself.— I’d be a 
nun, or a Sister of Charity. Impossible? 
Ha ! Mr. Caudle, you don’t know even 
now what I can be when my blood’s uii. 
You’ve trod uiion the worm long enough ; 
some day won’t you be sorry for it ? 

“Now' none of your jirofane ciwings 
out ! You needn’t talk about Heaven in 
that profane way : I’m sure you’re the last 
person who ought. What I say is this, — 
Your conduct at the Custom-House was 
shameful — cruel ! And in a foreign land, 
too ! But you brought me here that I 
might be insulted ; you’d no other reason 
for dragging me from England. Ha ! let 
me once get home, Mr. Caudle, and you 
may wear your tongue out before you get 
me into outlandish places again. TJ7/a/ 
have you done ? There now ; that’s where 
vou’re sb aggi'avating. A"ou behave worse 
than any Turk to me,— what ? You wish 
yon were a Turk? Well, I think that’s a 
l)retty wish before your lawful wife ? Yes 

a nice Turk you’d make, wouldn’t you ? 

Don’t think it. 

“ What have you done? Well, it’s a good 
thing I can’t see you, for I’m sure you 
must blush. Done, indeed ! Why, when 
the brutes searched my basket at the Cus- 
tom-House ! A regular thing, is it? Then 
if you knew that, why did you bring me 
here ? No man who respected his wife 
would. And you could stand by, and see 
that fellow with the mustachios rummage 
my ba.sket ; and pull out my night-cap aud 


40 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


used, if you’d the proper feelings of a man, 
you wouldn’t sleep again for six months. 
Well, I know there was nobody but wom- 
en there : but that’s nothing to do with it. 
I’m sure, if I'd been taken up for picking- 
pockets, they couldn’t have used me worse. 
To be treated so— and ’specially by one’s 
own sex ! — it’s that that aggravates me. 

“And that’s all that you can say ? TF//.r/^ 
could you do ? Why, break open the door; 


rumjde the borders, and — well ! if you’d 
had the proper feelings of a husband, your 
blood would have boiled again. But no ! 

There you stood looking as mild as butter 
at the man, aud never said a word ; not 
when he crumpled my night-cap — it went 
to my heart like a stab — crumpled it as if 
it Avas any duster. I dare say if it had 
been Miss Prettyman’s night-cai> — oh, I 
don’t care about your groaning — if it had 
been her night-cap, her hair-brush, her J I’m sure yoTi must have heard my voice : 
curl-j)apers, you’d have said something you shall never make me believe that you 
then. Oh, anybody with the spirit of a j couldn’t hear that. Whenever I shall sew 
man would have spoken out if the fellow [ the strings on again, I can’t tell. If tliey 
liad had a thousand swords at his side, j didn’t turn me out like a shii) in a storm. 
Well, all I knoAV is this : if I’d have mar- j I’m a sinner ! You laughed ! You didn't 
ried somebody I could name, he wouldn’t ' laugh ? Don’t tell me ; you laugh when you 
have suffered me to be treated in that Avay | don’t know anything about it ; but I do. 
— not he ! | “ And a pretty place you have brought 

“Now, don’t hope to go to sleep, Mr. j me to. A most respectable jdace I must 
Caudle, and think to silence me in that | say ! Where the women walk about with- 
manner. I know your art, but it Avon’t j out any bonnets to their heads, and the 
do. It wasn’t enough that my basket Avas i fish-girls with their bare legs — well, you 
turned toopsy-turvy, but before I kncAv it, i don’t catch me eating any fish Avhile I’m 
they spun me into another room, and — j here. Why not? Why not, — doyousup- 
How could you help that ? Y^ou never tried j jjose I’d encourage people of that sort ? 
to help it. No ; although it Avas a foreign “What do you say ? Good-night? It’s 
land, and I don’t speak French— not but ; no use your saying that— I can’t go to sleep 
Avhat I know a good deal moi’e of it than j so soon as you can. Esj^ecially with a door 
some people who give themselves airs ; that has such a lock as that to it. Hoav do 
about it — though I don’t speak their nas- j Ave know Avho may come in ? MTiat ? All 
ty gibberish, still you let them take me the locks are bad in France? The more 
aAvay, and neA'er cared hoAv 1 Avas ever to ’ shame for you to bring me to siTch a place. 


find you again. In a strange country, too ! 
But I’ve no doubt that that’s what you 
Avished ; yes, you’d have been glad enough 
to haA'e got rid of me in that coAvardly 
manner. If I could only knoAV your se- 


then. It only sIioavs Iioav you value me. 

“ Well, I dare say you are tired. I am ! 
But then, see Avhat I’ve gone through. 
Well,Ave Avon’t quarrel in a barbarous coun- 
try. We Avon’t do that. Caudle, dear, — 


cret thoughts, Caudle, that’s Avhat you j Avhat’s the French for lace ? I knoAv it. 

And only I forget it. The French for lace, 
loA'e ? What! Dentelle? Noav, you’re not 
deceiving me ? You never deceived me yet? 
Oh ! don’t say that. There isn’t a married 
man in this blessed Avorld can put his 
hand upon his heart in bed, and sAy that. 
French for lace, dear ? Say it again. 
Dentelle ? Ha 1 Dentelle ! Good-night, 
dear. Dentelle! Dentelle.” 


brought me here for, to lose me 
after the Avife I’ve been to you ! 

“What are you crying out ? Foi' mer- 
cy's sake? Yes : a great deal you knoAV 
about mercy ! Else you’d noA'er have suf- 
fered me to be tAvisted into that room. 
To be searched, indeed ! As if I’d any- 
thing sniAAggled about me. Well, I Avill 
say it ; after the way in Avhich I’ve been 


MKS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


47 


“I ufterwards,” writes Caudle, “found 
out to my cost wherefore she inquired 
about lace. For she went out in the 
morning with the landlady to buy a veil, 
giving only four pounds for what she 
could have bought in England for forty 
shillings !” 


THE TWENTY-SEVENTH LECTURE. 

MBS. CAUDLE EETUENS TO HER NATIVE LAND. 

“ UNJIANLY cruelty” OF CAUDLE, WHO 

HAS REFUSED TO “SMUGGLE A FEW 

THINGS ” FOR HER. 

“There, it isn’t often that I ask you to 
do anything for me, Mr. Caudle, goodness 
knows ! and when I do, I’m always refused 
— of course. Oh yes ! anybody but your 
own lawful wife. Every other husband 
aboard the boat could behave like a hus- 
band — but I was left to shift for myself. 
To be sure, that’s nothing new ; I always 
am. Every other man, w'orthy to be call- 
ed a man, could smuggle a few things for 
his wife — but I might as well be alone in 
the world. Not one poor half-dozen of 
silk stockings could you put in yonr hat 
for me ; and everybody else was rolled in 
lace, and I don’t know what. Eh ? What, 
Mr. Caudle ? do I xvant widi silk 

stockiuys? Well, — it’s come to something 
now ! There was a time, I believe, wLen 
I ha<l a foot — yes, and an ankle, too : but 
when a woman’s once married, she has 
nothing of the sort ; of cour.se. No : I’m 
not a cherub, Mr. Caudle ; don’t say that. 
I know' very well what I am. 

“I dare say now', you’d have been de- 
lighted to smuggle for Miss Prettyman ? 
HUk stockings become her ! You wish 
Miss Prettyman was in the moon ? Not 
you, Mr. Caudle; that’s only your art— 
vour hypocrisy. A nice person too she’d 
be for the moon : it w'ould be none the 
brighter for her being in it, I know. And 
when you saw the Custom-House officers 


look at me, as though they were piercing 
me through, what w’as your conduct ? 
Shameful. l’'ou twittered about, and fidg- 
eted, and flushed up as if I really xcas 
a smuggler. So I was ? What had that 
to do with it ? It wasn’t the part of a 
husband I think, to fidget in that way, 
and show' it. You conkin' t help it? Humph! 
And you call yourself a ;^erson of strong 
mind, I believe ? One of the lords of the 
creation ! Ha 1 ha ! couldn’t help it ! 

“But I may do all I can to save the 
money, and this is alw'ays my rew'ard. 
A'es, Mr. Caudle, I shall save a great deal. 
How much ? I sha’n’t tell you : I know' 
your meanness — you’d want to stop it out 
of the house allowance. No : it’s nothing 
to you where I got the money from to buy 
so many things. The money w'as my own. 
Well, and if it w as yours first, that’s noth- 
ing to do with it. No ; I haven’t saved it 
out of the jiuddings. But it’s always the 
woman Avho saves who’s despised. It’s 
only your fine-lady wives who’re properly 
thought of. If I was to ruin you, Caudle, 
then you’d think something of me. 

“ I sha’n’t go to sleeji. It’s very well 
for you who’re no sooner in bed, than 
you’re fast as a church ; but I can’t sleep 
in that Avay, It’s my mind keeps me 
aw'ake. And after all, I do feel so happy 
to-night, it’s very hard I can’t enjoy my 
thoughts. No: I can't think in silence! 
There’s much enjoyment in that to be 
sure ! I’ve no doubt now you could listen 
to Miss Prettyman — oh, I don’t care, I will 
sjjeak. It was a little more than odd, I 
think, that she should be on the jetty 
w hen the boat came in. Ha I she’d been 
looking for you all the morning with a 
telescope, I’ve no doubt-she’s bold enough 
for anything. And then how' she sneered 
and giggled Avhen she saAv me, — and said 
‘ how fat I’d got’ : like her imiiudence, I 
think. What ! Well she might? But I 
know' what she w'anted ; yes — she’d have 
liked to have had me searched. She laugh- 
ed on iJurpose. 


48 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


“I only -nisli I’d taken two of the dear 
girls with me. What things I co ild have 
stitched about ’em ! No— I’m not asham- 
ed of myself to make my innocent chil- i 
dren smnggljrs : the more innocent they I 
looked, the better ; but there you are with 
what you call your princiiAes again ; as if | 
it wasn’t given to everybody by nature to | 
smuggle. I’m sure of it — it’s born with 
us. And nicelj*I’ve cheated ’em this day. 
Lace, and velvet, and silk stockings, and 
other things, — to say nothing of the tum- 
blers and decanters. No ; I didn’t look as 
if I wanted a direction, for fear somebody 
should break me. That’s another of what 
yon call your jokes ; but you should keep 
’em, for all those who like ’em. / don’t. 

“ Wlidilutve I VKuh dfte^' all? I’ve told 
you — you shall never, never know. Yes, 

I know you’d been fined a hundred j)Ounds 
if they’d searched me ; but I never meant 
that they should. I dare say you Avonld 
n’t smuggle — oh no ! you don’t think it ; 
AS'orth your while. A'ou’re quite a conju- , 
rer, you ai’e, Caudle. Ha ! ha ! ha ! What 
am I laughing at? Oh, you little know — 
such a clever creature ! Ha ! ha ! Well, 
now. I’ll tell you. I knew what an unac- 
commodating animal you Avere, so I made 
you smuggle Avhether or not. How? Why, 
when you were out at the Cafe, I got your 
great rough coat, and if I didn’t stitch ten 
yards of best black velvet under the lining, 
I’m a sinful woman ! And to see how in- 
nocent 3’ou looked when the officers walk- 
ed round and round you ! It was a haj^iiy 
moment, Caudle, to see a'ou. 

“What do you call it? A shameful 
trick — unwortJuf of a wife? I couldnH care 
imich for you ? As if I didn’t prove that, 
by trusting you Avith ten yards of velvet. 
But I don’t care Avhat you say : I’ve saved 
everything — all but that beautiful English 
novel, that I’ve forgot the name of. And 
if they didn’t take it out of my hand, and 
chojiped it to bits like so much dog-meat. 
Served me right? And Avhen I so seldom 
biAy a book ! No : I don’t see hoAv it served 


me right. If you can buy the same book 
in France for four shillings that peoide 
here have the impudence to ask more than 
a guinea for — Avell, if they do st.oal it, that’s 
their affair, not ours. As if there was any- 
thing in a book to steal ! 

“ And now, Caudle, Avhen are you going 
home ? What ? Our time isn't up ? That’s 
nothing to do Avith it. If Ave even lose a 
Aveek’s lodging — and Ave mayn’t do that — 
Ave shall saA'e it again in liA'ing. But 3'ou 
are such a man ! Your home’s the last 
place Avith yoti. I’m sure I don’t get a 
Avink of a night, thinking Avhat may hap- 
pen. Three fires last Aveek ; and anj' 
one might as Avell haA'e been at our 
house as not. No- — they migldn't? Well, 
A'ou know Avhat I mean — but j’ou’re such 
a man ! 

“ I’m sure, too, we’ve had quite enough 
of this i)lace. But there’s no keeping 3 011 
out of the libraries, Caudle. Your getting 
quite a gambler. And I don’t think it’s a 
nice examjAe to .set your clxildren, raffling 
as you do for French clocks and I don’t 
know what. But that’s not the Avorst ; 
you neA^er win anything. Oh, I forgot. 
Yes ; a needle-case, that under my nose 
you gave to Miss Prett3mian. A nice thing 
for a married man to make presents : and 
to such a creature as that, too. A needle- 
case ! I wonder wheneA'er she has a needle 
in her hand ! 

“I knoAv I shall feel ill Avith anxiety if I 
stop here. Nobody left in the house but 
that Mrs. Closepeg. And she is such a 
stupid Avoman. It was only last night that 
I dreamt I saw our cat quite a skeleton, 
and the canary stiff on its back at the bot- 
tom of the cage. Y^ou knoAV, Caudle, I’m 
never happy when I’m aAvay from home ; 
and 3'et you will sta3’^ here. No, home’s 
my comfort ; I never Avant to stir over the 
threshold, and you knoAV it. If thieves 
Avere to break in, Avhat could that Mi-s. 
Close])eg do against ’em ? And so, Cau- 
dle, you’ll go home on Saturday ? Our 
I dear — dear home ! On Saturday, Caudle ?’ 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


49 


“Mliat I answered,”' says Caudle, “I 
foi'get ; but I know that on the Saturday, 
we were once again shipped on hoard the 
Red Rover." 


THE T\TENTY-EIGHTH LECTURE. 

]UR.S. CAUDLE HAS RETURNED HOME. — THE 

HOUSE (of course) “ NOT FIT TO BE SEEN.” 

— 3IR. CAUDLE, IN SELF-DEFENCE, TAKES 

A BOOK. 

“ After all, Caudle, it is something to 
get into one’s own bed again. I shall 
sleeiJ to-night. What ! You’re glad of it ? 
That’s like your sneering ; I know what 
you mean. Of course ; I never can think 
of making myself comfortable, but you 
wound my feelings. If you cared for your 
own bed like any other man, you’d not 
have stayed out till this hour. Don’t say 
that I drove you out of the house as soon 
as we came in it. I only just spoke about 
the dirt and the dust, — but the fact is, you’d 
be happy in a pig-sty ! I thought I could 
have trusted that Mi's. Closepeg with un- 
told gold ; and did you only see the hearth- 
rug ? When weTeft home there was a tiger 
in it : I should like to know who could 
make out the tiger now ? Oh, it’s very 
well for you to swear at the tiger, but 
swearing won’t revive the rug again. Else 
you might swear. 

“You could go out and make youLself 
comfortable at your club. You little know 
how many windows are broken. How 
many do you think.? No : I sha’n’t tell 
you to-morrow — you shall know now. I 
am sure. Talking about getting health at 
Margate ; all my health went away direct- 
ly I went into the kitchen. There’s dear 
mother’s China bowl cracked in two places. 
I could have sat down and cried when I 
saw it : a bowl I can recollect when I was 
a child. Eh ? I should have locked it up 
then ? Yes ; that’s your feeling for any- 


thing of mine. I only wish it had been 
your punch-bowl ; but, thank goodness ! 
I think that’s chipiied. 

“ Well, you haven’t answered about the 
windows — you can’t guess hoAV many ? 
You don’t care? Well, if nobody caught 
cold but you, it would be little matter. 
Six windows clean out, and three cracked! 
You can’t help it? I should like to know 
where the money’s to come from to mend 
’em ! They sha’n’t be mended, that’s all. 
Then you’ll see how respectable the house 
will look. But I know very well what you 
think. Yes ; you’re glad of it. Y'^ou think 
this will keeii me at home — but I’ll never 
stir out again. Then you can go to the 
sea-side by yourself ; then, j^ei’haps, you 
can be hapjiy with Miss Prettyman ? — 
Now, Caudle, if you knock the pillow 
with your fist in that way. I’ll get up. 
It’s very odd that I can’t mention that 
person’s name, but you begin to fight the 
bolster, and do I don’t know what. There 
must be something in it, or you wouldn’t 
kick about so. A guilty conscience needs 
no — but you know what I mean. 

“ She wasn’t coming to town for a week; 
and then, of a sudden, she’d had a letter. 
I dare say she had. And then, she said, it 
would be coinjiany for her to come with us. 
No doubt. She thought I should be ill 
again, and down in the cabin : but with 
all her art, she does not know the dejith 
of me — quite. Not but what I was ill ; 
though, like a brute you wouldn’t see it. 

“What do you say? Good-night, love? 
Yes : you can be very tender, I dare say 
— like all of your sex — to suit your own 
ends : but I can’t go to .sleep with my head 
full of the house. The fender in the par- 
lor will never come to itself again. I have 
n’t counted the knives yet, but I’ve made 
up my mind that half of ’em are lost. No: 
I don’t always think the worst ; no, and I 
don’t make myself unhapjiy before the 
time ; but of course, that’s my thanks for 
caring about your property. If there are 
not spiders in the curtains as big as nut- 


50 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


megs, I’m a Avicked creature. Not a broom 
has the Avhole place seen since I’ve been 
aAvay. But as soon as I get uja, won’t I 
rummage the house out, that’s all. I had 
n’t the heart to look at my pickles ; but 
for all I left the door locked, I’m sure the 
jars have l)een moved. Yes ; you can 
swear at the i^ickles when you’re in bed ; 
but nobody makes more noise about ’em 
Avhen yoii want ’em. 

“I only hope they’ve been to the wine- 
cellar : then you may knoAV wliat my feel- 
ings are. That 2)oor cat, too — What do 
you say ? Yoti hrtte cats? Yes, poor thing! 
because she’s my favorite — that’s it. If 
that cat could only siieak — What ? It isn’t 
necessary? I don’t know wdiat you mean, 
Mr. Caudle : brit if that cat could only 
sjieak, she’d tell me how she’s been cheat- 
ed. Poor thing 1 I know where the mon- 
ey’s gone to that I left for her milk — I 
know. "WTiy, what have 3' on got there, 
Caudle ? A book ? What ! If you ar'n't 
allowed to sleep, you’ll read? Well, now it 
is come to something ! If that isn’t insult- 
ing a wife to bring a book to bed, I don’t 
know w'hat w'edlock is. But you sha’n’t 
read, Caudle ; no you sha’n’t ; not wdiile 
I've strength to get up and put out a can- 
dle. 

“And that’s like your feelings! l’’ou 
can think a great deal of trumi^ery books; 
yes, you can’t think too much of the stuff 
that’s jAut into print ; but for what’s real 
and true about you, why jmu’ve the heart 
of a stone. I should like to know wdiat 
that book’s about ? What ? MiUan’s ^Par- 
adise Lost’ ? I thought some rubbish of 
the sort — something to insult me. A nice 
book, I think, to read in bed ; and a very 
respectable person he was avIio Avrote it. 
Yliat do I know of him ? Much more than 
you think. A Amiy pretty fellow, indeed, 
Avith his six Avives. MTiat ? He hadn’t 
six — he’d only three? That’s nothing to 
do Avith it ; but of course you’ll take his 
liart. Poor women ! A nice time the}" 
had with him, I dare say ! And I’ve no 


doubt, Mr. Caudle, j'ou’d like to folloAv 
Mr. Milton’s examiile ; else you Avouldn’t 
read the stuff he Avrote. But you don’t 
use me as he treated the poor souls avIio 
married him. Poets, indeed ! I’d make a 
law' against any of ’em liaAdng Avives excejit 
ujion pajier ; for goodness helji the dear 
creatures tied to them ! Like innocent 
moths lured by a candle ! Talking of can- 
dles, you don’t know' that the lamp in the 
passage is s^ilit to bits ! I say you don’t — 
do 3'ou hear me, Mr. Caudle ? Won’t a'ou 
ansAver ? Do you knoAv Avhere you are ? 
What ? In the Garden of Eden ? Are a'ou V 
Then you’ve no business there at this time 
1 of night.” 

“ And saA'ing this,” Avrites Caudle, “she 
scrambled from the bed, and put out the 
light.” 


THE TWENTY-NINTH LECTURE. 

MBS. CAL'DIiE THINKS “THE TIME HAS COME 
TO HAVE A COTTAGE OUT OF TOWN.” 

“ Caudle, a’Ou ought to have had some- 
thing nice to-night ; for you’re not Avell, 
love — I knoAV j'ou’re not. Ha ! that’s like 
you men, — so headstrong ! You Avill have 
it that nothing ails you ; but I can tell, 
Caudle. The eye of a wife — and such a 
wife as I’ve been to you — can at once see 
Avhether a husband’s w'ell or not. Y’^ou’ve 
been turning like talloAv all the Aveek ; and 
Avhat’s more you eat nothing, noAv. It 
makes me melancholy to see you at a joint. 
I don’t say anything at dinner before the 
children ; but I don’t feel the less. No, 
no ; you’re not very well ; and you're not 
as strong as a horse. Don’t deceive your- 
self — nothing of the sort. No, and you 
don’t eat as much as ever ; if 3'ou do, you 
don’t eat with a relish, I am sure of that. 
You can’t deceiA’e me there. 

“I know Avhat’s killing you. It’s the 
confinement ; its the bad air you breathe ; 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


51 


it’s the smoke of London. Oh yes, I know 
yonr old excuse : you never found the air 
had before. Perhaps not. But as peojjlo 
grow older, and get on in trade — and, after 
all, we’ve nothing to complain of, Caudle 
— London air always disagrees with ’em. 
Delicate health comes with money : I’m 
sure of it. "What a color you had once, 
when •you’d hardly a sixpence ; and now, 
look at you ! 

“ ’T would add thiidy years to your life 
— and think what a blessing that would be 
to me ; not that I shall live a tenth jiart of 
the time — thirty years, if you’d take a nice 
little house somewhere at Brixton. You 
lidte Brixton ? I must say it, Mr. Caudle, 
that’s so like you : any i)lace that’s really 
genteel, you can’t abide. Now Brixton 
and Baalam Hill I think delightful. So 
select ! Thei-e, nobody visits nobody, un- 
less they’re somebody. To say nothing of 
the delightful jjews that make the church- 
es so respectable ! 

‘ ‘ However, do as you like. If you won’t 
go to Brixton, what do you say to Claijh- 
am Common ? Oh, that’s a very fine story! 
Never tell me ! No ; you Avouldn’t be left 
alone, a Robinson Crusoe with wife and 
children, becau.se you’re in the retail way. 
"What ! The retired ixholesales ne'xer visit 
the retired retails at Clapham ? Ha ! that’s 
only your old sneering at the Avorld, Mr. 
Caudle ; but I don’t believe it. And after 
all, peoi)le should keep to their station, or 
what was this life made for ? Suppose a 
tallow-merchant does keep himself above a 
tallow-chandler, — I call it a jaroper pride. 
What? You call it the aristocracy of fat? 
I don’t know what you mean by aristocra- 
cy ; but I suj^pose it’s only another of your 
dictionary words, that’s hardly worth the 
finding out. 

“ What do you say to Hornsey or Mus- 
well Hill ? Eh? Too high? What a man 
you are ! Well then — Battersea ? Too law ? 
You’re an aggravating creature, Caudle, 
you must own that I Hami^stead, then ? 
Too cold? Nonsense ; it would brace you 


j up like a drum, Caudle ; and that’s what 
. you want. But yoir don’t deserve anybody 
I to think of your health or your comforts, 
either. There’s some pretty spots, I’m 
told, about Fulham. Now, Mr. Caudle, I 
won’t have you say a word against Ful- 
ham. That must be a sweet place : dry, 
and healthy, and every comfort about it — 
else is it likely that a bishop would live 
there ? Now, Caudle, none of your heath- 
en princii)les — I won’t hear ’em. I think 
what satisfies a bishop ought to content 
you ; but the politics you leara at that 
club are dreadful. To hear you talk of 
bishojjs — well, I only hope nothing will 
happen to you, for the sake of the dear 
children ! 

“A nice little house and a garden ! I 
know it — I was born for a garden I There’s 
something about it makes one feel so in- 
nocent. My heart somehow always opens 
and shuts at roses. And then what nice 
currant wine we could make ! And again, 
get ’em as fresh as you will, there’s no 
radishes like your own radishes ! They’re 
ten times as sweet I What ? Awl twenty 
times as dear ? Y"es ; there you go ! Any 
thing that I fancy, you always bring up 
the expense. 

“No, Mr. Caudle, I should not be tired 
of it in a month. I tell you I was made 
for the country. But here you’ve kept 
me — and much you’ve cared about my 
health — here you’ve kejit me in this filthy 
London, so that I hardly know what grass 
is made of. Much you care for your wife 
and your family to keeji ’em here to be all 
smoked like bacon. I can see it — it’s stop- 
jiing the children’s growth ; they’ll be 
dwarfs, and have their father to thank for 
it. If you’d the heart of a jiarent, you 
couldn’t bear to look at their white faces. 
Dear little Dick 1 he makes no breakfast. 
What ? He ate six slices this morning? A 
pretty father you must be to count ’em. 
But that’s nothing to w'hat the dear chdd 
could do, if, like other children, he’el a 
fair chance. 


52 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


“Ha! and when we could be so com- 
fortable ! But it’s always the case, you 
never will be comfortable with me. How 
nice and fresh you’d come up to birsiness 
every morning ; and what pleasui’e ’twould 
be for me to jjut a tulip or a pink in your 
button-hole, just, as I may say, to ticket 
you from the country. 

“But then, Caudle, you never were like 
any other man ! But I know why you 
won’t leave London. Yes, I know. Then, 
you think, you couldn’t go to your filthy 
club — that’s it. Then you’d be obliged to 
be at home, like any other decent man. 
"Whereas, you might, if you liked, enjoy 
yourself under your own api:)le-tree, and 
I’m sure I should never say any thing 
about your tobacco out of doors. My 
only wish is to make you haj^py, Caudle, 
and you won’t let me do it. 

“You don’t speak, love. Shall I look 
about a house to-morrow ? It will be a 
broken day with me, for I’m going out to 
have little pet’s ears bored — "^Tiat ? You 
iL'ou't hove her ears hared? And why not, I 
should like to know ? It's a barbarous, 
savage custom ? O IMr. Caudle ! the sooner 
yoia go away from the world, and live in a 
cave, t'*e better. Y’’ou’re getting not fit 
for Christian society. AVhat next ? My 
ears were bored and — "^diat ? And so are 
yours ? I know what you mean — but that’s 
nothing to do with it. My ears, I say, 
were bored, and so were dear mother’s, 
and grandmother’s before her ; and I buj)- 
pose there were no more savages in our 
family than in yours, Mr. Caudle ? Be- 
sides,— why should little pet’s ears go na- 
ked any more than any of her sisters’ ? 
They wear ear-rings : you never objected 
before. What ? You've learned better now ? 
Yes, that’s all Avith your filthy isolitics 
again. You’d shake all the Avorld u]) in a 
dice-box, if you’d your Avay : not that you 
care a pin about the Avorld, only you’d 
like to get a better throAV for yourself, — 
that’s all. But little pet shall be bored, 
and don’t think to prevent it. 


“ I suppose she’s to be married some 
day, as Avell as her sisters ? And who’d 
look at a girl Avithout ear-rings, I should 
like to kuoAV ? If you knew any thing of 
the Avorld, you’d knoAV Avhat a nice dia- 
mond ear-ring will sometimes do — Avheu 
one can get it — before this. But I know 
Avhy you can’t abide ear-rings noAV ; Miss 
Prettyman doesn’t Avear ’em ; she Av^uld — 
I’ve no doAibt — if she could only get ’em. 
Yes, — it’s Miss Prettyman, who — 

“There, Caudle, uoav be quiet, and I’ll 
say no more about 'pet’s ears at 2^1’esent. 
We’ll talk Avhen you’re reasonable. I 
don’t Avant to i^ut you out of temper, 
goodness knoAvs ! And so, love, about the 
cottage ? What ? ’ Twill be so far from 

business? But it needn’t be far, dearest. 
Quite a nice distance ; so that on your 
late nights, you may ahvays be at home, 
have your supi^er, get to bed, and all by 
eleven. Eh, — SAveet one ?” 

“I don’t know what I answered,” says 
Caudle, “ but I knoAv this ; in less than a 
fortnight I found myself in a sort of a 
green bird-cage of a house, Avhich my 
wife — gentle satirist — insisted ui)on call- 
ing ‘ The Turtle-DoA'ery. ’ ” 


THE THIRTIETH LECTURE. 

MRS. CAUDIiE COMPLAINS OF THE “ TURTLE- 

DO VERY.” — DISCOA'ERS BLACK BEETLES. 

THINKS IT “nothing BUT RIGHT” THAT 
CAUDLE SHOULD SET UP A CHAISE. 

“You’d never liaA’e got me into this Avil- 
derness of a place, Mr. Caudle, if I’d only 
have thought Avhat it Avas. Y'es, that’s all 
right : throAv it in my teeth tliat it Avas 
my choice— that’s manly, isn’t it ? When 
I saAv the jjlace the sun Avas out, and it 
looked beautiful — now, it’s quite another 
thing. No, Mr. Caudle ; I don’t expect 
you to command the sun, — and if you talk 


:\ril8. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


■ 53 


about Jo.shna in that infidel way, I’ll leave 
the bed. No, sir ; I don’t expect the sun 
to be in your power, but that’s nothing to 
do with it. I talk about one thing, and 
you always start another. But that’s your 
art. 

“I’m sure a Avoman might as well be 
buried alive as live here. In fact, I am 
buried alive ; I feel it. I stood at the 
windoAV three houi’s this blessed day, and 
saw nothing but the postman. No : it 
isn’t a 2nty that I hadn’t something better 
to do ; I had plenty : but that’s my busi- 
ness, Mr. Candle. I sujjjjose I’m to be 
mistress of my own house ? If not, I’d 
better leave it. 

“And the very first night we were hei’e, 
you know it, the black beetles came into 
the kitchen. If the place didn’t seem 
S2)read all over Avith a black cloth, I’m 
a story teller’. What are you coughing at, 
Mr. Caudle ? I see nothing to cough at. 
But that’s 3'our Avay of sneering. Millions 
of large black beetles ! And as the clock 
strikes eight, out they march. What ? 
They're very punctudl? I knoAv that. I 
only Avish other peojrle Avere half as imnct- 
ual : ’twould save other peoi)le’s money , 
and other peojrle’s jAcace of mind. You j 
knoAv I hate a black beetle ! No : I don’t | 
hate so many things. But I do hate black 
beetles, as I hate ill treatment, Mr. Cau- 
dle. And noAV I have enough of both, 
goodness knows ! 

“ Last night they came into the jrarlor. 
Of course, in a night or tAvo, they’ll Avalk 
ujr into the bed-room. They’ll be here — 
regiments of ’em — on the qirilt. But what 
do you care ? .Nothing of the sort ever 
touches you : but you knoAv hoAv they 
come to me ; and that’s Avhy you’re so 
quiet. A ideasant thing to have black 
beetles in one’s bed ! Why don't I poiso)i 
'em ? A jrretty matter, indeed, to have 
2)oison in the hou.se ! Much- you must 
think of the dear children. A nice 2)liice 
too, to be called the Turtle-Dovery ? Didn't 
I christen it myself? I know that, — birt 


then I knew nothing of the black beetles. 
Besides, names of houses are for the Avorld 
outside ; not that any body 2^asses to see 
ours. Didn’t Mns. Digby insist on calling 
their ncAv house Tjove-in-ldleness,’ though 
CA'ery body kneAv that the wretch Digby 
Avas always beating her ? Still, Avhen folks 
read ‘ Ro.se Cottage ’ on the Avail, they sel- 
dom think of the lots of thorns that are in- 
side. In this Avovld, Mr. Caudle, names 
are sometimes quite as good as things. 

“That cough again ! You’ve got a cold, 
and you’ll alAAays begetting one— for you’ll 
alAvays be missing the omnibus as you did 
on Tuesday, — and ahvays be getting Avet. 
No constitution can stand it, Caudle. — 
You don’t knoAV Avhat I felt Avhen I heard 
it rain on Tuesday, and thought you might 
be in it. What ? I'm veiy good? Y'es, I 
trust so : I try to be so, Caudle. And so, 
dear, I’ve been thinking that we’d better 
kee 2 > a chaise. You can't afford it, and you 
won't? Don’t tell me : I know you’d save 
money by it. I've been reckoning Avhat 
you lay out in omnibuses ; and if you’d a 
chaise of your own — besides the gentility 
of the thing — you’d bo money in 2>ocket. 

' And then again, how often I could gOAvith 
I you to toAvn, — and how, again, I could call 
I for you Avhen you liked to be a little late 
at the club, dear ? Noav, j’ou’re obliged 
to be hurried away — I know it — Avhen if 
you’d only a carriage of your oavu, you 
could stay and enjoy yourself. And after 
your Avork you Avaut some enjoyment. Of 
' course, I can’t ex2)ect you ahvays to run 
home directly to me : and I don’t Caudle ; 
and you knoAV it. 

“A nice, neat, elegant little chaise. 
What? You'll think (fit? There’s a love ! 
You are a good creature, Caudle ; and 
’tAvill make me so ha 2 J 2 iy to think you don’t 
depend upon an omnibus. A sweet little 
carriage, Avith our arms beautifully 23 ain- 
ted on the 2>‘^ii6ls. What ? Arms are 
rubbish; and you don't know that you hare 
any? Nonsense ; to bo sure you have — 
and if not, of course they’re to be had for 


54 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


money. I wonder where Chalkpit’s, the 
milkman’s, arms came from ? I suppose 
3’ou can buy ’em at the same place. He 
used to drive a green cart ; and now he’s 
got a close yellow carriage, with two large 
tortoise-shell cats, Avith their whiskers as 
if dipt in cream, standing on their hind 
legs upon each door, Avith a heap of Latin 
underneath. You may buy the carriage, 
if you please, Mr. Caudle ; but unless your 
arms are there, you Avon’t get me to enter 
it. Never ! I’m not going to look less 
than Mrs. Chalkpit. 

“Besides, if yoti haven’t arms, I’m sure 
my family have, and a wife’s axmis are 
quite as good as a husband’s. I’ll Avrite 
to-moiTOAv to dear mother, to know what 
we took for our family arms. What do 
you say ? What ? A mangle in as tone- 
kitchen propel' ? Mr. Caudle, you’re ahvays 
insulting my family — ahvays ; but you 
shall not put me out of temper to-night. 
Still, if you don't like our arms, find your 
own. I dare say you could have found 
’em fast enough, if you’d married Miss 
Prettyman. Well, I Avill be quiet : and I 
AVon’t mention that lady’s name. A nice 
lady she is ! I wonder hoAV much she 
spends in paint ! Noav, don’t I tell you I 
Avon’t say a Avord more, and yet you will 
kick about ! 

“Well, Ave’ll liaA'e the carriage and the 
family arms ? No, I don’t Avant the fami- ' 
ly legs too. Don’t be vulgar, Mr. Caudle. | 
You might, perhaps, talk in that Avay be- ' 
fore you’d money in the Bank ; but it does 
n’t become you now. The carriag® and 
the family arms ! We’ve a country-house 
as Avell as the Chalkpits ; and though they 
l)raise their jdace for a little Paradise, I 
dare say they’ve quite as many black bee- 
tles as Ave have, and more too. The place 
quite looks it. 

“ Our carnage and our arms ! And you 
know, loA^e, it Avon’t cost much — next to 
nothing — to put a gold band about Sam’s 
hat on a Sunday. No : I don’t Avant a full- 
blown livery. At least, not just yet. I’m 


told the Chalk2uts dress their boy on a 
Sunday like a dragon-fly ; and I don’t see 
Avhy A\'e shouldn’t do Avhat Ave like Avith 
our oAvn Sam. NeA^ertheless, I’ll be con- 
tent with a gold band, and a bit of peji- 
jrer-and-salt. No : I shall not cry out for 
ixlush next ; certainly not. But I will 
hav'e a gold band, and — You wont; and 
I know it ? Oh yes ! that’s another of your 
crotchets, Mr. Caudle ; like nobody else — 
you don’t love liveries. I sujAiAose Avhen 
ixeoifle buy their sheets, or their table- 
cloths, or any other linen, they’A^e a right 
to mark what they like upon it, haven’t 
they ? Well, then ? A’ou buy a servant, 
and you mark what you like ixpon him, 
and Avhere’s the difference .** None, that I 
can see.” 

“Finally,” Avrites Caudle. “I comjiro- 
mised for a gig; but Sam did not Avear 
pepper-and-salt and a gold band. ” 


THE THIRTY-FIRST LECTURE. 

MBS. CAUDIjE complains A'EKV bittekly 
THAT MB. CALDLE “ HAS BBOKEN HEB 
CONETDENCE. ” 

“You’ll catch me, Mr. Caudle, telling 
you anything again. Now, I don’t want 
to have any noise : I don’t Avish you to i>ut 
yourself in a passion. All I say is this : 
never again do I oiien my lips to you 
about anybody. No : if man and Avife 
can’t be one, why there’s an end of every- 
thing. Oh, you knoAV very well Avhat I 
mean, Mr. Caudle : you’A’e broken nly con- 
fidence in the most shameful and lieartless 
Avay, and I reiieat it — I can never be again 
to you as I have been. No : the little 
charm — it Avasn’t much — that remained 
about married life is gone foreA-er. Yes ; 
the bloom’s quite Aviped off the ixlum noAv. 

“Don’t be such a hypocrite, Caudle; 
don’t ask me Avhat I mean ! Mrs. Badg- 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


erly lias been here — more like a fiend, I’m 
sure, than a quiet woman. I haven’t done 
trembling yet ! T^ou know the state of my 
nerves, too ; you know — yes, sir, I had 
nerves when you married me : and I have 
n’t just found ’em out. Well, you’ve some- 
thing to answer for, I think. The Badg- 
erlys are going to separate : she takes the 
girls, and he the boys, and all through 
you. How can you lay your head upon 
that pillow and think of going to slee2i, I 
can’t tell. What have you done? AYell, 
you have a face to ask the question. Done? 
You’ve broken my confidence, Mr. Caudle: 
you’ve taken advantage of my tenderness, 
my trust in you as a wife — the more fool I 
for my iiains!— and you’ve separated a haii- 
py couple forever. No ; I'm not talking | 
in the clouds ; I’m talking in your bed, 
the more my misfortune. 

“Now, Caudle — yes, I shall sit uji in the 
bed if I choose ; I’m not going to sleep 
till I have this pro^Derly exjDlained ; for 
Ml’S. Badgerly sha’n’t lay her seiiaration 
at my door. You won’t deny that you 
were at the club last night ? No, bad as 
you are, Caudle — and though you’re my 
husband, I can’t think you a good man ; I 
try to do, but I can’t — bad as you are, 
you can’t deny you were at the club. 
What? You don't deny it? Tliat’s what 
I say — you can’t. And now, answer me 
this question. What did you say — before 
the whole world — of Mr. Badgerly’s whisk- 
ers ? There's nothing to laugh at, Caudle; 
if you’d have seen that poor woman, to- 
day, you’d have a heart of stone to laugh. 
Wliat did you say of his whiskers ? Did 
n’t you tell every body he dyed ’em ? 
Didn’t you hold the caudle up to ’em, as 
you said, to show the purjile ? To be sure 
you did? Ha ! iieoiile wlio break jokes 
never care about breaking hearts. Badg- 
erly Avent home like a demon ; called his | 
wife a false woman : vowed he’d never en- 1 
ter a bed again with her, and to show he j 
was in earnest, slejit all night upon the 
sofa. He said it was the dearest secret of 


his life ; said .she had told me ; and that I 
had told you’ ; and that’s how it had come 
out. What do you say ? Badgerly was 
right ? I did tell you ? I know I did : but 
when dear Mrs. Badgerly mentioned the 
matter to me and a few friends, as we were 
all laughing at tea together, quite in a 
confidential way, — when she just spoke of 
her husband’s whiskers, and how long he 
was over ’em every morning, — of course, 
I>oor soul ! she never thought it was to be 
talked of in the world again. Eh ? Then 
I had no right to tell you of it ? And that’s 
the way I’m thanked for my confidence. 
Because I don't keep a secret from you, 
but show you, I may say, my naked soul, 
Caudle, that’s how I’m rewarded. Poor 
I Mrs. Badgerly — for all her hard words — 
after she went away, I’m sure my heart 
quite bled for her. What do you say, Mr. 
Caudle ? Sei’ves her right — she should hold 
he)' tongue ? Yes ; that’s like your tyranny, 
you’d never let a jioor woman sjjeak. Eh 
— what, what, Mr. Caudle ? 

“That’s a very fine sjjeech, I dare say ; 
and wives are very much obliged to you, 
only there’s not a bit of truth in it. No, 
we women don’t get together, and j^ick 
our husbands to pieces, just as sometimes 
mischievous little girls rip uj) their dolls. 
That’s an old sentiment of yours, Mr. Cau- 
dle : but I’m sure you’ve no occasion to 
say it of me. I hear a good deal of other 
peojjle’s husbands, certainly ; I can’t shut 
my ears ; I wish I could : but I never say 
anythifig about you, — and I might, and 
you know it, — and there’s somebody else 
that knows it, too. No : I sit still and say 
nothing ; what I have in my own bosom 
about you, Caudle, will be buried with 
me. But I know what you think of wives. 
I heard you talking to Mr. Prettyman, 
when you little thought I was listening, 
and you didn’t know much what you were 
saying — I heard you. ‘My dear Pretty- 
man,’ says you, ‘when some women get 
to talking, they club all their husbands’ 
faults together, just as children club their 


56 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


cakes and ai?ples, to make a common feast 
for the whole set.’ Eh ? You don't re- 
member it ? Bnt I do : and I remember, 
too, what brandy was left when Prettyman 
went. ’Twould be odd if you could re- 
member much about it after that. 

“And now you’ve gone and separated 
man and wife, and I’m to be blamed for it. 
You’ve not only canned misery into a fam- 
ily, but broken my confidence. You’ve 
proved to me tha: henceforth I’m not to 
trust you with anything, Mr. Caudle. No: 
I’ll lock up whatever I know in my own 
breast, — for now I find nobody, not even 
one’s own husband, is to be relied ui^on. 
From this moment, I may look upon my- 
self as a solitary woman. Now, it’s no use 
your trying to go to sleep. What do you 
say ? You Amow that? Very well. Now, 
I want to ask you one question more. Eh? 
You leant to ask me one? Very well — go 
on — I’m not afraid to be catechised. I 
never dropt a .syllable that as a wife I 
ought to have kept to myself — no, I’m not 
at all forgetting what I’ve said — and what- 
ever you’ve got to ask me speak out at 
once. No — I don’t want you to spare me; 
all I -want of you is to speak. You will 
speak? Well then, do. 

“What ? TI7/0 told people you'd a false 

frord tooth? And is that all ? Well, I’m 
sure — as if the world couldn’t see it. I 
know I did just mention it once, but then 
I thought everybody knew it — besides, I 
was aggravated to do it ; yes, aggravated. 
I remember it was that very day, at Mrs. 
Badgerly’s, when husbands’ whiskers were 
brought up. Well, after we’d done with 
them, somebody said something about 
teeth. Whei'eniron, Miss Prettyman — a 
minx ! she was born to destroy the peace 
of families — I know she was : she was 
there ; and if I’d only known that such a 
creature was — no, I’m not rambling, not 
at all, and I’m coming to the tooth. To 
be sure, this is a great deal you’ve got 
against me — isn’t it ? Well, somebody 
s2)oke about teeth, when Miss Prettyman, 


: with one of her insulting leers, said ‘ she 
thought Mr. Caudle had the whitest teeth 
she ever had beheld. ’ Cf course, my blood 
was up — every Avife’s would be : and I be- 
lieve I might have said, ‘Yes, they Avere 
Avell enough ; but Avhen a young lady so 
very much praised a maiTied man’s teeth, 
she irerhaps didn’t knoAv that one of the 
front ones Avas an elei)hant’s.’ Like her 
imjrudence ! — I set doAvn for the rest 

of the evening. But I can see the humor 
you’re in to-night. You only came to bed 
I to quarrel, and I’m not going to indulge 
j you. All I say is this, after the shameful 
[ mischief you’ve made at the Badgerlys’, 

' you neA’er break my confidence again. 

I Never — and noAv you know it.” 

I 

Caudle hereupon Avrites, — “And here 
she seemed inclined to sleep. Not for one 
moment did I think to prevent her.” 


THE THIRTY-SECOND LECTURE. 

Mins. C.WDLE 1)ISOOUK.SE.S OF MALDS-OF-.VIiL- 
AVOKK AND MAIDS IN GENERAL. MR. CATJ- 
DLE’s ‘ ‘ INFAMOUS BEHAVIOR ” TEN TEARS 
AGO. 

“ There hoav, it isn’t my intention to 
say a Avord to-night, Mr. Caudle. No ; I 
Avant to go to slceii, if I can ; for after Avhat 
I’ve gone through to-day, and with the 
headache I’ve got, — and if I haven’t left 
my smelling-salts on the mantel-piece, on 
the right-hand corner just as you go into 
the room — nobody could miss it — I say, 
nobody could miss it — in a little green bot- 
tle, and — Avell, there you lie like a stone, 
and I might iierish and you Avouldn’t move, 
j Oh, my^ jioor head ! But it may^ oiien and 
shut, and Avhat do you care ? 

“A'es, that’s like your feeling — just. I 
j AV'ant my salts, and you tell me there’s 
j nothing like being still for a headache, 
j Indeed ? But I’m not going to be still ; 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


so don’t yon think it. Tliat’.s just how a 
woman’s put upon. But I know your ag- 
gravation — I know your art. You think 
to keep me quiet about that minx. Kitty, 
—your favorite, sir ! Upon my life, I’m 
not to discharge my own servant without 
— but she shall go. If I had to do all the 
work myself, she shouldn’t stop under my 
roof. I see how she looks down upon me. 
I can see a great deal, Mr. Caudle, tlmt I 
never choose to open my li2)s about — but 
I can't shut my eyes. Perhaps it would 
have been better for my ijeace of mind if I 
always could. Don’t say that. I’m not a 
foolish woman, and I know veiw well what 
I’m saying. I sujjpose you think that I 
forgot that Rebecca ? I know it’s ten years 
ago that she lived with us — but what’s 
that to do Avith it ? Things ar’n’t the less 
true for being old, I sui)pose. No ; and 
your conduct, Mr. Caudle, at that time — 
if it was a hundred years ago — I should 
never forget it. What ? I shall always be 
the same silly woman ? I hoj)e I shall — I 
trust I shall ahvays have my eyes about 
me in my own house. Now, don’t think 
of going to sleep, Caudle ; because, as 
you’ve brought this up about that Rebecca, 
you shall hear me out. Well, I do won- 
der that you can name her ! Eh ? You 
didn't name her ? That’s nothing at all to 
do with it; for I know just as well Avliat 
you think, as if you did. I suppose that 
you’ll say you didn’t drink a glass of wine 
to her ? Never? So you said at the time, 
but I’ve thought of it for ten long years, 
and the more I’ve thought, the surer I am 
of it. And at that A’ery time — i f y ou plea.se 
to recollect — at that very time little Jack 
Avas a baby. I shouldn’t have so much 
cared but for that ; but he was hardly 
running alone, Avhen you nodded and 
drank a glass of wine to that creature. 
No ; I’m not mad, and I’m not dreaming. 

I saw how you did it, — and the hypocrisy 
made it Avorse and Avorse. I saw you : 
Avhen the creature A\’as just behind my 
chair, you took up a glass of Avine, and 


57 

saying to me ‘Margaret,’ and then lifting 
uj) your eyes at the bold minx, and say- 
ing, ‘My dear,’ as if you wanted me to be- 
lieve that you spoke only to me, Avhen I 
could see you laugh at her behind me. 
And at that time little Jack wasn’t on his 
feet. What do you say ? Heaven forgive 
me? Ha ! Mr. Caudle, it’s you that ought 
to ask for that : I’m safe enoAigh, I am : 
it’s you Avho should ask to be forgiven. 

“No, I wouldn’t slander a saint — and I 
didn’t take aAvay the girl’s character for 
nothing. I know she brought an action 
for Avhat I said ; and I knoAv you had to 
pay damages for what you call my tongue 
— I w'ell remember all that. And servo 
you right ; if you hadn’t laughed at her, 
it Avouldn't have hai^pened. But if you 
Avill make free Avith such jAeople, of course 
you’re sui'e to suffer for it. ’T would have 
served you right if the lawyer’s bill had 
been double. Damages, indeed ! Not 
that any body’s tongue could have dam- 
aged her ! 

“AndnoAv, Mr. Caudle, you’re the same 
man yoAi Avere ten years ago. What ? 
You hope so ? The more shame for you. 
At your time of life, Avith all your children 
groAving uji aboAit you, to — What am I 
talking of? I know very well ; and so 
Avould you, if you had any conscience, 
Avhich you haven’t. When I say I shall 
discharge Kitty, you say she’s a very good 
servant, and I shan’t get a better. But I 
kuoAv why you think her good ; you think 
her i)rett3’, and that’s enough for you ; as 
if girls who Avork for their bread have any 
buiiness to be in-etty, — which she isn’t. 
Pretty servants, indeed ! going minci.2g 
f.bout Avith their fal-lal faces, as if eA'en the 
flies v.'ould sjAoil ’em. But I know Avhat a 
bad man you are — now, it’s no use your 
denying it ; for didn’t I overhear you talk- 
ing to Mr. Prettyman, and didn’t you say 
that you couldn’t bear to have ugly ser- 
vants about you ? I ask you, — didn’t you 
say that ? Perhaps you did? Y'^ou don’t 
blush to confess it ? If your principles. 


58 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


Mr. Caudle, ar’n’t enough to make a wom- 
an’s blood run cold ! 

“ Oh yes ! you’ve talked that stuff again 
and again ; and once I might have l)elieved 
it ; but I know a little more of you now. 
You like to see pretty servants, just as you 
like to see pretty statues, and pretty pic- 
tures, and pretty flowers, and anything in 
Nature that’s pretty, just, as you say, for 
the eye to feed upon. Yes ; I know your 
eyes, — very well. I know what they were 
ten years ago ; for shall I ever forget that 
glass of wine when little Jack was in arms? 
I don’t care if it was a thousand years ago, 
it’s as fresh as yesterday, and I never will 
cease to talk of it. When you know me, 
how can you ask it ? 

“And now you insist upon keeping Kit- 
ty, when there’s no having a bit of crock- 
ery for her ? That girl would break the 
Bank of England, — I know she would, — 
if she was to put her hand upon it. But 
what’s a whole set of blue China to her 
beautiful blue eyes ? I know that’s what 
you mean, though you don’t say it. 

“Oh, you needn’t lie groaning there, 
for you don’t thinb I shall ever forget Re- 
becca. Yes, — it’s very w'ell for you to 
swear at Rebecca now, — but you didn’t 
swear at her then, Mr. Caudle, I know. 
‘ Margaret, my dear !’ Well, how can you 
have the face to look at me — Fbu don't 
look at me? The more shame for you. 

“ I can only say, that either Kitty leaves 
the house or I do. Which is it to be, Mr. 
Caudle? Eh? Yoxi don't care? Both? 
But you’re not going to get rid of me in 
that manner, I can tell you. But for that 
trollope — now, you may swear and rave as 
you like — You don't intend to say a icord 
morre? Very well; it’s no matter what 
you say — her quarter’s up on Tuesday, 
and go she shall. A soup-i)late and a ba- 
sin went yesterday. 

“A soup-jdate and a basin, and when 
I’ve the headache as I have, Mr. Caudle, 
tearing me to pieces! But I shall never be 
well in this world — never. A soup-plate 
and a basin !” 


“She slept,” writes Caudle, “ and poor 
Kitty left on Tuesday.” 


THE THIRTY-THIRD LECTURE. 

3ms. CAUDIiE HAS DISCOVERED THAT ^IR. 

CAUDLE IS A RAILWAY DIREt;TOR. 

“When I took up the paper to-day, 
Caudle, you might have knocked me down 
with a feather I Now, don’t be a hypocrite 
— you know what’s the matter. And when 
you have’nt a bed to lie upon, and are 
brought to sleep on coal-sacks — and then 
I can tell you, Mr. Caudle, you may sleep 
by yourself — then you’ll know what’s the 
matter. Now, I’ve seen your name, and 
don’t deny it. Y"es, — the Eel -Pie Island 
Railway — and among the Directors, Job 
Caudle, Esq., of the Tuiile-Dovery, and — 
no, I won’t be quiet. It isn’t often — good- 
ness knows 1 — that I speak ; but seeing 
what I do, I won’t be silent. miat do I 
see? Wliy, there, Mr. Caudle, at the foot 
of the bed, I see all the blessed children 
in tatters — I see you in a jail, and the car- 
pets hung out at the windows. 

“ And now I know why you talk in your 
sleep about a broad and narrow gauge 1 I 
couldn’t think what was on your min 1, — 
but now it’s out. Ha ! Mr. Caudle, there 
is something about a broad and narrow 
way that I wish you’d remember — but 
you’ve turned quite a heathen : yes, you 
think of nothing but money now. Don't 
I like money? To be sure I do ; but then 
I like it when I’m certain of it ; no risks 
for me. Yes, it’s all very well to talk about 
fortunes made in no time : they’re like 
shirts made in no time — it’s ten to one if 
they hang long together. 

“And now it’s plain enough why you 
can’t eat, or drink, or sleep, or do any- 
thing. All your mind’s allotted into rail- 
ways ; for you sha’n’t make me believe that 
Eel-Pie Island’s the only one. Oh no ! I 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


59 


<*aa see l)y the looks of you. ^^Tly, in a 
little time, if you haven’t as many lines in 
your face as there are lines laid down ! i 
Every one of your features seems cut up, — 
and all seem traveling from one another. * 
Six months ago, Caudle, you hadn’t a 
wrinkle ; yes, you’d a cheek as smooth as | 
any china, and now your face is like a map ; 
of England. 

“At your time of life, too ! You, who; 
Avere for always going small and sure ! 
You to make heads-and-tails of your mon- 
ey in this way ! It’s that stock -broker’s 
dog at Flam Cottage — he’s bitten you, I’m i 
sure of it. Y’ou’re not tit to manage your [ 
own jn-operty noAv ; and I should be only 
acting the 25art of a good wife, if I Avere to i 
i-all in the mad-doctors. 

“Well, I shall never knoAv rest any more | 
now. There Avon't be a soul knock at the | 
door after this, that I shan’t think it’s the | 
man coming to take i)ossession. ’TAvill be I 
something for tlie ChalkiAits to laugh at ^ 
Avhen Ave’re sold uja. I think I see ’em 
here, bidding for all oiir little articles 
of bigotry and virtue, and — Avhat are you 
laughing at ? They're not bigotry and vir- 
tue ; but bijouterie and veriu? It’s all the 
same : only you’re neAX-r so haiii)y as Avhen 
you’re taking me up. 

“If I can tell Avhat’s to come to the 
AA orld, I’m a sinner ! Every body’s for 
turning their farthings into double soA'er- 
eigns and cheating their neighbors of the 
balance. And you, too — you’re beside 
yourself, Caudle, — I’m sure of it. I’ve 
Avatched you Avhen you thought me fast 
asleeiJ. And then you’ve lain, and Avhis- 
l^ered and Avhisiiered, and then hugged 
yourself, and laughed at the bed-posts, as 
if you’d seen ’em turned to sovereign gold. 

I do belieA'e that you sometimes think that 
the iiatch-Avork quilt is made of thousand 
pound bank-notes. 

“ Well, Avhen Ave’re brought to the Un- 
ion, then you’ll find out your mistake. 
Rut it will be a ^loor satisfaction for me | 
everv night to tell you of it. What, Mr. 


Caudle ? They won't let me tell you of it? 
And you call that ‘some comfort’ ? And 
after the Avife I’ve been to you ! But noAV 
I recollect. I think I’ve heard you praise 
that Union before ; though, like a fond 
fool as I’a'O always been, I never once sus- 
l^ected the reason of it. 

“And now, of course, day and night 
you'll never be at home ? No, you’ll Ha’c 
and sleeii at Eel-Pie Island ! I shall be 
left alone Avith nothing but my thoughts, 
thinking Avhen the broker Avill come, and 
you’ll be Avith your brother directors. I 
may slave and I may toil to save sixpences ; 
and you’ll bo throwing aAvay hundreds. 
And then the exjjensive tastes you’ve got. 
Nothing good enough for you noAv. I’m 
sui'e you sometimes think yourself King 
Solomon. But that comes of making 
money — if, indeed, you have made any — 
Avithout earning it. No : I don’t talk non- 
sense ; peoi)le can make money without 
earning it. And Avhen they do, wdiy it’s 
like taking a lot of siiii'its at one draught ; 
j it gets into their head, and they don’t 
I know what they’re about. And you’re in 
that state now, Mr. Caudle ; I’m sure of 
it, by the way of you. There’s a tijAsiness 
of the j^ocket as Avell as of the stomach, — 
and A'ou’re in that condition at this very 
moment. 

“ Not that I should so much mind — that 
is, if you have made money — if you’d stoji 
at the Eel-Pie line. But I know what 
these things are : they’re like treacle to 
flies : Avhen men are Avell in ’em, they can’t 
get out of ’em : or if they do, it’s often 
Avithout a feather to fly Avith. No : if 
you’ve really made money by the Eel-Pie 
line, and Avill give it to me to take care of 
j for the dear children, Avhy, lAcrhaps, loA’e, 

! I’ll say no more of the matter. What ? 
Xonaense ? Yes, of course : I never ask 
you for money, but that’s the Avord. 

I “And noAv, catch you stopping at the 
I Eel-Pie line ! Oh no, I knoAv your aggra- 
I vating spirit. In a day or tAvo I shall see 
another fine flourish in the jiajier, Avith a 


jO 


]\mS. CAUDLE’S CITETAIN LECTUKES. 


proi^osal for a branch from Eel-Pie Island 
to the Chelsea Bun-house. Give vou a 
mile of rail, and — I know you men, you’ll 
take a hundred. Well, if it didn't make 
me quiver to read that stuff in the paper, — 
and your name to it ! But I supi)ose it 
was Mr. Prettyman’s work ; for his j^re- 
eious name’s among ’em. How you tell 
people ‘ that eel-pies are now become an es- 
sential element of civilization ’—I learnt all 
ihe words by heart, that I might say ’em 
to you — that the Eastern population of 
London are cut off from the blessings of 
such a. necessary, — and that by means of 
the projected line eel-pies will be brought 
nome to the business and bosoms of Eat- 
cliff highway, and the adjacent dei^end- 
mcies.’ Well, Avhen you men — lords of 
he creation, as you call younselves — do 
get together to make up a company, or 
iny thing of the sort, — is there any story- 
oook can come up to you ? And so you 
iook solemnly in one another’s faces, and 
!':ver so much as moving the corners of 
/our mouths, pick one another’s pockets. 
AO, I’m not using hard Avords, Mr. Cau- 
tlle-- but only the Avords that’s proper. 

“ And this I must say. Whatever you’v’e 
got, I’m none the better for it. You never 
u'iA’e me any of your Eel-Pie shares. — 
\Vhat do you say ? You u-ill (jire me some? 
i\’ot i--I’ll have nothing to do Avith any 
Avickedness of the kind. If, like any other 
;iusl)and, you choose to throAv a heap of 
money into my lajj — Avhat ? You'll think 
■ f it? When the Eel-Pies go up ? Then I 
(.now Avhat they're Avorth — they’ll never 
ictch a farthing.” 

“ She Avas suddenly silent ” — Avrites Cau- 
d]t'~“ and I Avas sinking into sleep, Avhen 
she elboAved me, and cried, ‘Caudle, do 
you think they Avill be up to-morroAv ? ’ ” 


THE THIETY-FOUETH • LECTUEE. 

MRS. CAUDLE, SUSPECTINO THAT ME. CAU- 
DLE HAS MADE HIS AVILL, IS ‘ ‘ ONLY ANX- 
IOUS AS A AVTFE” to know ITS PEOA’IS- 
lONS. 

“I ALAA’AYS said you’d a strong mind 
when you liked, Caudle ; and Avhat you’ve 
just been doing proves it. Some people 
Avon’t make a Avill, becau.se they think they 
must die directly aftei'wards. Noav, you’re 
aboA^e that, love, ar’n’t you ? Nonsense ; 
you know A'erv Avell Avhat I mean. I knoAv 
your Avill’s made, for Scratcherly told me 
so. What! You don't ImHece it? Well, 
I’m sure ! That’s a pretty thing for a man 
to say to his wife. I know he’s too much 
a man of business to talk ; but I suiqiose 
there’s a Avay of telling things Avithout 
speaking them. And Avhen I put the ques- 
tion to him, laAvyer as he is, he hadn’t the 
face to deny it. 

“ To be sure, it can be of no consequence 
to me Avhether your Avill is made or not. 
I shall not be alive. Mr. Caudle, to Avant 
auything : I shall be lu’OA'ided for a long 
time before your Avill’s of any use. No, 
Mr. Caudle ; I shan’t surA’ive you : and — 
though a AA oman’s Avrong to let her affec- 
tion for a man be knoAvn, for then she’s al- 
Avays taken adA'antage of — though I know 
it’s foolish and Aveak to say so, still I don’t 
Avant to suivive you. Hoav should I ? 
No, no ; don’t say that ; I’m not good for 
a hundred — I shan’t see you out, and an- 
other husband too. What a gro.ss idea, 
Caudle ! To imagine I’d eA'er think of 
marrying again. No, no — never ! What ? 
That's u'hat all sag? Not at all ; quite 
the reverse. To me the very idea of such 
a thing is horrible, and ahvays Avas. Yes, 
I know very Avell that some do marry 
again,— but Avhat they’re made of, I’m sure 
I can’t tell. — Ugh 1 

“There are men, Avho leave their proj-)- 
erty in such a Avay that their AvidoAvs, to 
hold it, must keep AvidoAvs. Noav, if there 


3IRS. CAUDLE’S CUETAIX LECTURES. 


0 - 


no doubt when Miss Prettymau siseaks, 
you can answer her properly enough, 
There you are, again ! Upoii my life, it is 
odd ; but I never can in the most innocent 
way mention that person’s name that — 
Why can't I leave her alu)ie? I’m sure — 
with all my heart ! Who wants to talk 
about her ? I don’t : only you always 
will say something that’s certain to bring 
ui^ her name. 

“What was I saying, Caudle? Oh, 
about the way some men bind their wid- 
ows. To my mind, there is nothing so 
Uttle. When a man forbids his wife mar- 
rying again without losing what he leaves 
— it’s what I call selfishness after death, 
mean to a degree ! It’s like taking his 
wife into the grave Avith him. Eh ? You 
never want to do that? No, I’m sure of 
that, loA e : you’re not the man to tie a 
Avoman uj) in that mean manner. A man 
AAho’d do that, Avould have his AvidoAv 
burnt Av'ith him, if he could — just as those 
monsters, that call themselves men, do in 
the Indies. 

“However, it’s no matter to me how 
you’A'e made your Avill ; but it may be to 
your second Avife. Mliat ? I shall never 
give you a chance ? Ha ! you don’t knoAv 
my constitution after all, Caudle. I’m 
not at all the Avoman I Avas. I say noth- j 


is any thing in the Avorld that is mean and j you must many again. — Now don’t for 
small, it is that. Don’t you think so too, ■ sAvear yourself in that A’iolcnt way, tal ing 
Caudle ? M hy don’t you 8i)eak, lo\'e ? an oath that you knoAV you must brer 
That’s so like you ! I never want a little ; you couldn’t help it, I’m sure of it ; ai.a J 
quiet rational talk, but you Avant to go J know you better than you knoAV yourt 'f 
to sleep. Rut you never Avere like any Well, all I ask is, love, because it’s t 
other man ! AVhat ? llow dxt 1 A.74oir for your sake, and it would make n/o dif 
There uoav,— that’s so like your aggravat- ference to me then— how should it ?— but 

ing way. I never open my lips upon a j all I ask is, don’t marry Miss Piet 

subject, but you ti-y to put me off. Pa'c i There ! there! I’v'e done; I Avon't say 

another Avord about it ; but all I ask is. 
don’t. After the way you’ve been though i 
of, and after the comforts you’ve been 
used to, Caudle, she wouldn’t be the AA ifj 
for you. Of course, I could then have lu- 
interest in the matter — you might many 
the Queen of England, for Avhat it Avouhi 
be to me then — I’m only anxious about 
you. Mind, Caudle, I’m not saying any- 
thing against her ; not at all ; but there's 
a fiightiness in her manner^ — I dare say. 
poor thing, she means no harm, and it may 
be, as the saying is, only her manner aftei 
all — still, there is a fiightiness about hei; 
that, after what you’ve been used to, Avould 
make you very Avretched. Noav, if I may 
boast of anything, Caudle, it is my propi i 
ety of manner the Avhole of my life. I know 
that wives who’re very iiarticular, ar’n't 
thought as well of as those who’re not- 
still, it’s next to nothing to be A'irtuous, it 
peoiile don’t seem so. And virtue, Cau- 
dle — no, I’m not going to preach aboul 
virtue, for I never do. No ; and I don't 
go about with my virtue, like a child Avith 
a drum, making all sorts of noises with it. 
But I knoAV your ijrincijiles. I shall nev 
er forget what I once heard you say to 
Pretty man : and it’s no excuse that you’d 
taken so much Avineyou didn’t knoAv Avhat 
you were saying at the time ; for Avine 


ing about ’em, but very often you don’t brings out men’s Avickedness, just as fire 
knoAV my feelings. And as Ave’re on the ' brings out sjjots of grease. What did you 
subject, dearest, I hav'e only one favor to , Why you said this: — ‘Virtue is a 

ask. When you marry again — uoav it’s j beautiful thiug in Avomen, Avhen they don’t 
no use vour saying that. After the com- ; make so much noise about it ; but there’s 
forts you’ve known of marriage — Avhat are j some Avomen, Avho think virtue Avas giAen 
vou sighing at, dear ? — after the comforts ' ’em, as claws were given to cats’ — yes, cats 


G2 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


was the word — ‘ to do nothing hut scratch | 
with. ’ That’s what you said. You don't j 
recollect a syllable of it? No, that’s it; when 
you’re in that dreadful state, you recollect 
nothing : hut it’s a good thing I do. 

“ But we won’t talk of that, love — that’s 
all over : I dare say you meant nothing. 
But I’iHi glad you agree with me, that the 
man who’d tie up his widow, not to marry 
again, is a mean man. It makes me hapjjy 
that you’ve that confidence in me to say 
that. 1^0?^ never said it ? That’s nothing 
to do with it — you’ve just as good as said ^ 
it. No : when a man leaves all his proi5- 
erty to his wife, without binding her hands 
from marrying again, he shows what a 
depeirdence he has upon her love. He 
proves to all the world what a wife she’s 
heen to him ; and how, after his death, he 
know^s she’ll grieve for him. And then, 
of course, a second marriage never enters 
her head. But wdieu she only keeps his 
money so long as she keeps a widow, why, 
she’s aggravated to take another hushand. 
I’m sure of it ; many a poor woman has 
heen driven into wedlock again, only be- 
cause she was spited into it by her hus- 
band’s wiU. It’s only natural to suppose 
it. If I thought, Caudle, you could do 
such a thing, though it would break my 
heart to do it, — yet, though you were dead 
and gone, I’d show you I'd a spirit, and 
many again directly. Not but what it’s 
ridiculous my talking in such a way, as I 
shall go long before you ; still, mark my 
words, and don’t j^rovoke me with any will 
of that sort, or I’d do it — as I’m a living 
woman in this bed to-night, I'd do it. ” 

“I did not contradict her,” says Cau- 
dle, “ but suffered her to slumber in such 
assurance.” 


THE THIRTY-FIFTH LECTURE. 

MRS. CAUDI/E “has BEEN TOED ” THAT CAU- 
DLE HAS “TAKEN TO PLAY ” AT BILLIARDS. 

“Y’ou’re late to-night, dear. It's not 
late? Well, then, it is’nt, that’s all. Of 
cour.se, a woman can never tell Avhen it’s 
late. Y"ou Avere late on Tuesday, too : a 
little late on the Friday before ; on the 
Wednesday before that — now, you needn’t 
twist about in that manner ; I’m not going 
to say anything — no ; for I see it’s now no 
use. Once, I own, it used to fret me Avheu 
you stayed out ; but tha:’s all over : you’ve 
now brought me to that state, Caudle — 
and it’s your own fault, entirely — that I 
don’t care whether you ever come home 
or not. I never thought that I could be 
brought to think so little of you ; but 
you’ve done it : you’ve been treading on 
the worm for these twenty years, and it’s 
turned at last. 

“Now, I’m not going to quaiTel ', that’s 
all over : I don’t feel enough for yon to 
quarrel with you — I don’t, Caudle, as true 
as I’m in this bed. All I want of you is — 
any other man Avould speak to his wife, 
and not lie there like a log — all I want is 
this. Just tell me Avhere you w^ere on 
Tuesday ? You were not at dear mother’s, 
though you know she’s not well, and you 
know she thinks of leaving the dear chil- 
dren her money ; but you never Inid any 
feeling for anybody belonging to me. And 
you were not at your Club : no, I know 
that. And you were not at any theatre. 
How do I Tcnorv ? Ha, Mr. Caudle ! I 
only wish I didn’t know. No ; you were 
not at any of these places ; but I know 
well enough where you were. Then rohy 
do I ask if I knoiv? That’s it ; just to 
prove Avhat a hypocrite you are : just to 
shoAV you that you can’t deceive me. 

“So, Mr. Caudle — you’ve turned bil- 
liard-player, sir. Only once? That’s quite 
enough : you might as well play a thous- 
and times ; for you’re a lost mau, Caudle. 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


f)3 


Only once, indeed. I wonder if I was to 
say ‘Only once,’ what would you say to 
me ? But, of course, a man can do no 
wrong in anything. 

“ And you’re a lord of the creation, Mr. 
Caudle ; and you can stay away from the 
comforts of your blessed fireside, and the 
society of your own wife and children — 
though, to be sure, you never thought 
anything of them — to 2iush ivory balls 
about with a long stick upon a green table- 
cloth. What ijleasuro any man can take 
in such stuff must astonish any sensible 
Avoman. I jjity you, Caudle ! 

“And you can go and do nothing but 
make ‘cannons ’ — that’s the gibberish they 
talk at billiard.s — wdien there’s the manly 
and athletic game of cribbage, as my jioor 
grandmother used to call it, at your oavu 
hearth. You can go into a billiard-room — 
you, a respectable tradesman, or as you 
set yourself up for one, for if the Avorld 
kneAv all, there’s but little respectability in 
you — you can go and play billiards with a 
set of creatures in mustachios, Avhen you 
might take a nice, quiet hand Avith me at 
home. But no ! anything but cribbage 
Avith your own wife ! 

“ Caudle, it’s all over now ; yoir’A'e gone 
to destruction. I never knew a man enter 
a billiard-room that he Avasn’t lost forever. 
There was my uncle Wardle ; a better man 
never broke the bread of life : he took to 
billiards, and he didn’t live Avith aunt a 
month afterAvards. A lucky feUoui ? And 
that’s what you call a man Avho leaves his 
Avife — a ‘ lucky fellow ?’ But, to be sure, 
Avhat can I expect ? We shall not be to- 
gether long, noAV : it’s been some time 
coming, but at last, Ave must separate : 
and the wife I’ve been to you ! 

“ But I know Avho it is ; it’s that fiend, 
Prettyman. I xcill call him a fiend, and 
I’m by no means a foolish Avoman : you’d 
no more thought of billiards than a goose, 
if it hadn’t been for him. Noav, its no 
use, Caudle, your telling me that you have 
only been once, and that you can’t hit a 


ball anyhoAA' — you’ll soon get OA'er all 
that ; and then you’ll never be home. 
You’ll be a marked man, Caudle ; yes, 
marked ; there'll be something about you 
that’ll be dreadful ; for if I couldn’t tell a 
billiard-jAlayer by his looks, I’ve no eyes, 
that’s all. They all of them look as yel- 
low as jiarchment, and Avear mustachio.s — 
I sui)i>ose you’ll let yours groAv, noAV ; 
though they’ll be a good deal troubled to 
come, I knoAv that. Yes, they’A^e all a yel- 
loAV and sly look ; just for all as if they 
Avere first-cousins to jAeople that picked 
ijockets. And that Avill be yoiir case, Cau- 
dle : iu six months, the dear children 
Avon’t knoAV their oavu father. 

“Well, if I knoAV myself at all, I could 
have bonie anything but billiards. The 
com2)anions you’ll find ! The Ca2>tains 
that Avill be always borrowing fifty 2 )ounds 
of you ! I tell you, Caudle, a billiard- 
room’s a 2 Jlaoc Avhere ruin of all sorts is 
made easy, I may say, to the loAvest un- 
derstanding, — so you can’t miss it. It’s a 
chapel of ease for the devil to 2Jveach iu — 
don’t tell me not to be eloquent : I don’t 
knoAv Avhat you mean, Mr. Caudle, and I 
shall be just as eloquent as I like. But I 
never can open my li2)s — and it isn’t often, 
goodness knows ! — that I’m not insulted. 

“ No, I Avoii’t be quiet on this matter ; I 
Avon’t, Caudle ; on any other, I Avouldn’t 
say a word — and you knoAv it — if you 
didn’t like it ; but on this matter, I will 
S2)eak. I knoAV you can't 2)lay at billiards ; 
and never could learn — I dare say not ; 
but that makes it all the Avorse, for look 
at the moiu'y you’ll lose ; see the ruin 
you’ll be brought to. It’s no use your 
telling me you’ll not 2>lay — now you can’t 
hel 2 ) it. And nicely you’ll be eaten U 2 ). 
Don’t talk to me ; dear aunt told me all 
about it. The lots of felloAvs that go every 
day into billiard-rooms to get their din- 
ners, just as a fox sneaks into a farm-yard 
to look about him for a fat goose — and 
they’ll eat you u 2 J, Caudle ; I knoAv they 

Avill. 


MKS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


G1 

“Billiard-balls, indeed! "Well, in my 
time, I’ve been over Woolwich Arsenal — 
you were something like a man then, for 
it was just before we were maiTied— and 
then, I saw all sorts of balls ; mountains of 
’em, to be shot away at churches, and into 
I)eople’s peaceable habitations, breaking 
the china, and nobody knows what — I say, 
I’ve seen all these balls — well, I know I’ve 
said that before ; but I choo.se to say it 
again — and there’s not one of ’em, iron as 
they are, that could do half the mischief j 
of a billiard-ball. That’s a ball, Caudle, j 
that’s gone through many a wife’s heart, j 
to say nothing of her children. And that’s • 
a ball, that night and day you’ll be de- 
stroying your family with. Don’t tell me 
you’ll not play ! When once a man’s given j 
to it — as my poor aunt used to say — the 
devil’s always tempting him with a ball, 
as he tempted Eve with an apple. 

“I shall never think of being happy 
any more. No : that’s quite out of the 
([uestion. You’ll be there every night — I 
know you will, better than you, so don’t 
deny it — every night over that wicked 
green cloth. Green, indeed ! It’s red, 
crimson red. Candle, if you could only 
properly see it — crimson red, with the ! 
hearts tliose balls have broken. Don’t tell I 
me not to be pathetic — I shall : as pathetic | 
as it suits me. I suppose I may speak, j 
However, I’ve done. It’s all settled now. ' 
Y’'ou’re a billiard- jdayer, and I’m a wretch- 
ed woman.” 

“ I did not deny either position,” writes 
Caudle, “and for this reason — I wanted to 
sleep.” 


THE LAST LECTURE. 

MRS. CAUDLE HAS TAKEN COLD : THE TRAG- 
EDY OF THIN SHOES. 

“I’m not going to contradict you, Cau- 
«lle ; you may say what you like — but I 


think I ought to know my own feelings 
better than you. I don’t wish to ujibraid 
you neither ; I’m too ill for that ; but 
it’s net getting wet in thin shoes, — oh no ! 
it’s my mind, Caudle, my mind, that’s kill- 
ing me. Oh yes ! gruel, indeed — you 
think gruel will cure a woman of any- 
! thing ; and you know, too, how I hate it. 
Gruel can’t reach what I suffer ; but, of 
j course, nobody is ever ill but yourself. 
Well, I — I didn’t mean to say that ; Imt 
Avhen you talk in that wny about thin 
shoes, a woman says, of course, what she 
doesn’t mean ; she can’t lielji it. Y’^ou've 
always going on about my shoes ; Avhen I 
think I'm the fittest judge of what be- 
comes me best. I dare say, — ’twould be- 
all the same to you if I put on plowman’s 
boots ; but I am not going to make a figure 
of my feet, I can tell you. I’ve neA’er got 
cold with the shoes I’ve worn yet, and 
’t’is’n’t likely I should begin now. 

“No, Caudle; I wouldn’t Avish to say 
anything to accuse you : no, goodness 
knows, I wouldn’t make you nneomforta- 
j ble for the Avorld, — but the cold I’ve got 
I got ten years ago. I have ncA^er said 
anything about it — but it has never left 
me. Yes ; ten years ago, the day before 
yesterday. How can I recollect it? Oh, 
very w’ell : women remember things you 
neA'er think of : poor souls ! they’ve good 
cause to do so. Ten years ago, I Avas sit- 
ting up for you, — there noAv, I’m not go- 
ing to say anything to vex you, only do 
let me speak : ten years ago, I Avas Avaiting 
for you, and I fell asleeji, and the fire Avent 
out, and Avhen I aAvoke I found I Avas sit- 
ting right in the draught of the key-hole. 
That Avas my death, Caudle, though don’t 
let that make you uneasy, love ; for I don’t 
think you meant to do it. 

“ Ha ! it’s all \'ery Avell for you to call it 
nonsense ; and to lay your ill conduct ni>- 
on my shoes. That’s like a man, exactly. 
There never Avas a man yet that killed hie 
wife, Avho couldn’t give a good reason for 
it. No : I don’t mean to say that you’ve 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


G5 


killed me : quite the reverse : still, there’s ^ 
never been a day that I hav'n’t felt tlnit 
key-hole. What ? R //y won't [ hove a i 
(Inctor? What’s the use of a doctor ? Why ' 
should I put you to expense ? Besides, I 
<Iai-e say you’ll do very well without me, 
Caudle : yes, after a very little time, you 
won’t miss me much — no man ever does. 

“ Peggy tells me, Mi.ss Pi-ettyman called 
to-day. What of it ? Nothing, of course. 
Yes ; I know she heard I was ill, and that’s 
why she came. A little indecent, I think, 
Mr. Caudle ; she might wait ; I shan’t be 
in her way long ; she may soon liave the 
key of the caddy, now. 

‘ ‘ Ha ! Mr. Catidle, what’s the use of your 
calling me your dearest soul, now? Well, 
I do believe you. I dare say you do mean 
it ; that is, I hoije you do. Nevertheless, 
you can’t expect I can lie cpiiet in this bed 
and think of that young woman — not, in- 
deed, that she’s near so young as she gives 
herself out. I bear no malice toward her, 
C’audle — not the least. Still, I don’t think 
I could lie at peatie in my grave if — well, I 
won’t say anything more aboxit her ; but 
you know what I mean. 

“ I think dear mother would keep house 
1 )eautifully for you, when I’m gone. Well, 
love, I won’t talk in that way if a'ou de- 
sire it. Still, I know I’ve a dreadful cold ; 
though I won’t allow it for a miniite to be 
the shoes — certainly not. I never would 
wear ’em thick, and you know it, and they 
never gave me cold yet. No, deai*est Cau- 
dle, it’s ten years ago that did it ; not that 
1 11 say a syllable of tlie matter to hurt 
you. I’d die first. 

“Mother, you see, knows all your little 
ways ; and you wouldn’t get another wife 
to study you and pet you up as I’ve done— a 
second wife never does ; it isn’t likely she 
should. And after all, Ave’ve been very 
hai^py. It hasn’t been my fault, if we’ve 
had a word or two, for you couldn’t heliJ 
now and then being aggi-avating ; nobody 
can help their tempers always, — especially 


men. Still we’ve been very happy — 
haven’t we, Caudle ? 

‘ ‘ Good night. Yes, — this cold does tear 
me to pieces ; but for all that, it isn’t the 
shoes. God bless you, Caudle ; no, — it’s 
not the shoes. I won’t say it’s the key- 
hole ; but again I say, it’s not the shoes. 
God bless you once more— But never say 
it’s the shoes.” 

It can hardly, we think, be imagined 
that Airs. Caudle, during her fatal illness, 
never mixed admonishnlent Avith soothing 
as before ; but such fragmentary Lectures 
were, doubtless, considered by her dis- 
consolate widower as having too touching, 
too solemn an import to be vulgarized by 
type. They were, however, i)rinted on the 
heart of Caudle ; for he never ceased to 
sjjeak of the late partner of his bed but as 
either “his sainted creature,” or “that 
angel now in heaven.” 


THE POSTCRIPT. 

Our duty of editorship is closed. We 
ho2Ae we have honestly fulfilled the task of 
selection from a large mass of i)a2)ers. We 
could have iiresented to the female world 
a Lecture for Every Night in the Y’ear. 
Y'’es, — three hundred and .sixty-five se2)ar- 
ate Lectures ! We trust, however, that 
Ave have done enough. And if Ave have 
armed Aveak Avoman Avith even one argu- 
ment in her unequal contest Avith that iin- 
I>erious creature, man — if Ave ha\’e aAvard- 
ed to a sex, as Mrs. Caudle herself Avas 
wont to declare, “put uiaou from the be- 
ginning,” the slightest means of defence— 
if Ave have supiilied a solitary text to meet 
any one of the manifold Avrongs Avith which 
AA'oman, in her household life, is continu- 
ally pressed by her tyrannic task-master, 
man, — Ave feel that AvehaA’e only i>aid back 


36 


MRS. CAUDLE’S CURTAIN LECTURES. 


one grain, hardlv one, of that mountain of 
more than gold it is our felicity to owe her. 

During the progress of these Lectures, 
it has very often pained us, and that ex- 
cessively, to hear from unthinking, inex- 
perienced men — bachelors of course — that 
every woman, no matter how divinely com- 


posed, has in her ichor-flowing veins one 
drop — “ no bigger than a wren’s eye” — of 
Caudle ; that Eve herself may now and 
then have been guilty of a lecture, mur- 
muring it balmily amongst the rose-leaves. 

It may be so ; still, be it our pride never 
to believe it. 


THE END. 




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